


How to Train your Assassins

by TemporaryDysphoria



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Character: Baby Goat (Recurring), Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Heist fic, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, OT4, Playing fast and loose with canon just like the show ayyyye, Presumed Dead, References to Depression, References to suicidal ideation, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence, eventual gang polyamory, many broken bones, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-06-28 01:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 83,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TemporaryDysphoria/pseuds/TemporaryDysphoria
Summary: When did one become two? When did two begrudgingly become three? At what point did three become four with Pops on the side?When Jigen leaves the American Mafia he doesn't expect to last more than three months with the eccentric French thief.When Goemon takes his first job with Fujiko Mine, he expects this will be merely a distraction until he finds the relic he's been searching for.Both of them were wrong - they just didn't knowhowwrong.23/6 - still on hiatus, but have made some minor changes that needed doing. Also changed some tags per the request of some readers. As always, mind the Author's Notes on the chapters, and enjoy.





	1. Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the start of what may become either my greatest idea to date or my worst. I have an outline, and I'll be working to fill it in. As such, the title and summary etc etc are a work in progress as much as the rest of the story.  
> This will be multi-chapter, alternating POV's between Jigen and Goemon - looking between the lines and behind the scenes at how the OT4 crime fam came to be.  
> I like to work in with canon - but as we all know the Lupin canon is a bit nonsense all of the time, so I'll be loosely tying things in as best I can.  
> Comments encouraged!
> 
> Come and yell at me on tumblr about my OT4 @ temporary-dysphoria.tumblr.com

“I’m looking for a bodyguard.”

The feminine voice that floated down the scratchy line put Goemon on edge for reasons he couldn’t explain. He’s worked with women before, worked for women before. More often than not they were better to work for than men –

A delicate cough breaks through his reverie, “Are you still there Mr Ishikawa-san?”

“Yes, my apologies.”

“Right,” there was a brief pause before, “As I was saying – duties will include accompanying the client to various functions, monitoring her safety and ensuring that her functions go uninterrupted. Payment can be negotiated in person, and the bonus I offered will depend on the overall success of the job.”

Another pause, and a high girlish giggle, “The form of payment can also be discussed in person if you – “

Goemon cut her off at that, “Cash will be fine, thank you.”

“Excellent, I’ll see you on Saturday then. I’ll contact you with the address.”

“Thank would be acceptable.”

“Bye-bye now,” the line clicked off. Goemon places his phone carefully back on the hook and walks to his small kitchenette with purpose. Tea making supplies are set out delicately and as he begins the ritual, he runs through the interview in his mind again. He hasn’t advertised his services of late - so whoever had called him, obviously knew of him either through someone, or from an old advertisement. He still couldn’t pin down the source of his uneasiness. It’s sitting deep in his stomach warning him of some yet unknown danger to come.

The tea warms him to his core as he reflects. Fujiko Mine. The name sounds familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. It tugs at the unease in his abdomen – swimming about like goldfish in a bowl. He finishes his tea and stands. There was no point in worrying now – he had already given his word that he would do the job. And Goemon Ishikawa was not a man to go back on his word.

* * *

The job goes suspiciously well. A day trip to an art museum was not Goemon's typical idea of a days' work - but a job was a job - and Fujiko had promised to pay well. Fujiko had not specified exactly what (or who) Goemon was guarding her from - he didn't bother to ask, plenty of rich women utilized bodyguards these days. Fujiko chatted aimlessly as they left the building, shifting her backpack on her shoulders. He'd offered to carry it before but she had declined - she seemed very particular about her belongings. 

They hadn't been walking very long when Goemon heard the distant sound of sirens. Police cars raced past them to come to a screeching halt outside the very museum they had just exited.

Fujiko looked briefly over her shoulder before tugging on his sleeve, "come, I haven't got all day."

"I wonder what they are here for? We didn't see anything unusual during our out-"

His sleeve was tugged again and he let his unheard sentence trail off. They made the rest of the short walk to their meeting place in record time - Fujiko closed the door behind them, locking it securely. 

"What was-"

Fujiko upended the backpack onto the small table, nimble hands placing small sculptures into piles that only she understood. Goemon stared. That was why the name sounded so familiar over the phone so many days ago. It was a mark of how long Goemon had been out of the business that he hadn't immediately recognized one of Japans most well-known thieves in the flesh. Fujiko had started chattering again as she placed the stolen art back into her bag, zipping it neatly. 

" - the buyer is a small way out of town, and then we can organise your payment. And; if you're interested, I've got another job coming up in about two weeks."

Goemon nods. His training can go no further until he locates the sword - and his informants are coming up with remarkably little regarding its current whereabouts. Fujiko Mine will be a welcome distraction until further information comes to light. And she pays well. 

* * *

An overcast day turns into an overcast night, and Daisuke Jigen is counting out the reasons he’s still working for this asshole while he waits for the inevitable burglar.

‘I’ll pack my gear in the morning if nothing shows up tonight,’ he thinks. There’s no use for him here if the thief never shows. His skills could be better used elsewhere – and if nothing else, he can drink without hearing a disapproving cough behind his shoulder. The door opens and a woman floats into the room – one of the bosses’ conquests maybe. She stumbles a little – drunk – then rights herself, looking towards the door with a keen eye. ‘Not drunk then, here on purpose.’

Jigen waits to see what she’s going to do. The overcast evening has made way for heavy rain, the noise outside almost drowns out the noise from the obnoxious party downstairs. The woman pulls something out of the front of her dress and moves confidently towards where Jigen knows the safe is.

‘Bingo.’ He lets her go a little longer, he thinks its almost poetic justice that the asshole he’s working for is being undermined by a woman, no less. But – a job is a job, so as the woman successfully manages to crack open the safe, Jigen cracks the safety on his pistol.

She turns around with a start, eyes the Magnum suspiciously before responding in kind with a handgun of her own. ‘Walther P38 – not a bad choice’. Too small for Jigen’s liking but they work well and fire reliably. He weighs up the options – on the balance of probability she probably won’t shoot him – women rarely do, the guns tend to be more for the scare factor than anything else. She might be expecting him to shoot – and who knows where the bullet will go if she pulls the trigger while startled.

He takes the chance and fires a warning shot above her left shoulder. Bitch doesn’t even flinch, and fires back just as fast. Jigen sees the minute hand movements and hoists himself out of the line of sight before the gun discharges. He hears a jump and a clattering from something falling on the desk. Surprise must show on his face because the man standing where the woman was moments earlier looks like he’s about to split his sides with laughter.

The dress is pooled at the man’s feet – along with a mask and wig by the looks of it. The man vaults over the desk and starts working of the window catch. The sound of Jigen’s safety clicking is loud even with the rain outside.

“You’ll be dropping whatever it is you took before you go.” It was a statement, not a question. Jigen’s gun now trained at a point on the mans back that would drop him in a second.

The man pushes the window open and the sound of the rain increases tenfold. He looks back at Jigen with a wry grin, “No thank you, I’ll just be going if its all the same to you.”

He starts to climb and Jigen moves across the room towards him – the window isn’t that large and the drop is substantial from the third or fourth floor they’re on. The man turns back towards Jigen with a contemplative look on his face.

He shoves a hand in his jacket, Jigen keeps the Magnum pointed straight at him.

“You know,” the man’s voice is lilting – not American. Maybe European, some of the vowels are coming out weirdly, “I’ve heard of you, Daisuke Jigen.”

Jigen doesn’t bother to reply. He’s got a feeling the man is going to talk regardless.

“Best of the best – if I’m not mistaken.” Jigen’s eyes follow the man’s hand as it exits the jacket. Slim fingers hold out a square of paper. When Jigen doesn’t move the man leans forward and places it on the desk before turning grinning and turning back to the window.

“When you want a better job – get in touch.”

The man hoists himself over the ledge and the movement spurs Jigen into action. He reaches the window and sees the thief two stories below – arm raised in a brief wave – as if he were a friend. There’s a banging on the door and Jigen goes to pocket the small piece of paper – glancing at it quickly.

There’s nothing on it bar a name and an address. The address is somewhere in France – but it’s the name that catches him. The door crashes open and the boss storms in, loyal lapdogs’ minutes behind him. The room is filled with the angry noise of a cheated Mafia kingpin and when he spits at the men to go downstairs and chase the thief, Jigen follows but his heart isn’t really in it. Physically he’s there, but mentally he’s trying to line up the stories, the legends he’s heard whispered around the underworld. The ones about the Frenchman who warns people that he intends to steal their valuables, who is kind (or stupid) enough to give them a time and date for the crime – and then despite the forewarning succeeds anyway.

Jigen slides the paper into his trouser pocket. Lupin the Third is not a common name. But then again – if the stories are to be believed, Lupin the Third is not a common thief either.

The boss spits in his general direction when they come back empty handed. Jigen doesn’t care. He gets paid in two days then his contract is void. He won’t be renewing with this particular syndicate.

* * *

The phone rings shrilly - breaking Goemon's concentration. He grumbles as he reaches for the handset. 

"Goemon!" He wasn't expecting to hear from Fujiko for another week at least. Water was getting hot in Tokyo so she had gone abroad to take some time off. America was nice this time of year apparently. 

A long-suffering sigh echoed down the line. "Are you even listening?" He was not - 

"Uhh, yes. What were you saying?"

"I said," Fujiko's voice dropped low and conspiratorial, "I've found something over here that might interest you."


	2. First Contact

Goemon is not a fan of America. It is too loud and dirty for his tastes. Fujiko leads him from street to street – chattering away, sometimes to him, sometimes to a nameless face on the other end of her phone. He’s been there for a week and he is no closer to the promised artefact than when he arrived. He is getting impatient.

“Patience, love” says Fujiko, all doe eyes and cunning.

“At this rate, the mountains will move before I return to Japan” he huffs.

It’s another week (a whole seven painful days), before they get their chance to make their move.

* * *

Lupin the Third.

Goemon has heard of the thief. Anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock for the last 10 or so years has heard of the thief. He wasn’t expecting to meet him under lock and key, but the man does have a certain knack for getting himself caught and then getting away if the stories are to be believed.

Even had his face not been well known, Goemon could have identified him by his clothing choice alone. Garish was one word for that frankly abominable clash of colours.

* * *

Daisuke Jigen.

The gunman’s name and reputation precede him, all the way to Japan. So much so, that when Goemon eventually lays eyes on the elusive hitman himself he’s confused. He’s smaller than he expects. He almost doesn’t see him with his attention drawn towards the caricature of a man standing beside him. He doesn’t understand how a man so dangerous could let himself be chained up like a tame dog – beside that clown of a thief no less.

Then he catches sight of the artefact he came all the way to America to collect and Daisuke Jigen is banished to the back of his mind as all hell breaks loose.

* * *

The blade sits perfectly balanced in his hands – immediately like an extension of his own limb. His previous weapon feels like a child’s plaything compared to this. Gun stocks melt like butter – precise strokes leave his opponents angry and confused at their sudden lack of available weaponry. He goes through the motions like clockwork. The blade and his body move as one, like water. This – this was worth the long hours in dirty streets, following half-baked clues and nonsense riddles. This was worth the years of research and time spent on locating what others called a myth. This, would allow Goemon Ishikawa the thirteenth to join his ancestors as a legend.

He finds himself back to back with Jigen and Goemon gets the distinct feeling he’s found a kindred spirit in the heat of battle. Enemies drop left and right as he runs, not all of them victims of his own blade. He catches the gunman’s dark eyes briefly as he reloads behind cover. He watches the man stand and fire, once, twice – barely taking in the bodies as they fall. Even though Goemon shuns modern weaponry, he can appreciate the unerring deadly accuracy that Daisuke Jigen is renowned for.

There were no missed shots, no body shots, no shots to disarm rather than maim. Bodies crumble with a bullet through the heart or through the head – no exceptions. A six-shooter is about as useful as a sword though, in the cases where the wielder is vastly outnumbered. Goemon has found a height advantage and can see that Jigen is slowly but surely getting boxed in. He starts to move - two is better than one in any scenario - until he’s stopped by a sound he was never expecting to hear in the middle of a firefight.

Jigen’s barking laugh rings out as he gets surrounded. The man has a feral grin on his face as his revolver spits fire to those who dare cross the invisible threshold that he’s set out around himself. Before long, there are more corpses than there are living mafia grunts – and those who are left seem to think twice about advancing on the man who laughs in their faces with fire in his eyes as he shoots them. 

He catches Goemon’s eye and throws him a wry grin from under his hat brim. It sends a shiver down Goemon’s spine. He’s found a man who truly is, as dangerous as himself.

* * *

Whatever hopes Goemon had of running back off to Japan immediately are put on hold, thanks to Fujiko’s insistence that his job was not yet complete. He finds himself suddenly in close quarters with two more criminals than he is used to, and it grates on his already fine nerves.

Lupin is proving himself to be more literally a clown than Goemon ever expected from an international thief. Between his general disdain for anyone’s personal space and his outright disrespect for Fujiko, Goemon finds very little to like about him at all.

Fujiko doesn’t appear to care, to the casual eye she would appear to be enjoying the attention – but Goemon has worked with her for long enough to realise she’s merely planting a seed. He gets the uncomfortable feeling that this won’t be the last he will see of America – nor will it be the last he sees of the European thief.

Jigen is the part of the equation that puzzles him. He has no real stake in the artefact that Lupin stole – Goemon finds out. He appears to only be staying because he has nowhere better to be. Yet, he spends his time acting as though he would rather be anywhere else.

He doesn’t talk to any of them unless specifically spoken to – he ignores Fujiko outright.

Goemon watches him one evening out of curiosity if nothing else from his perch on the roof. The gunman leans against the balcony, glass of liquor in one hand, cigarette in the other – staring blankly at the city horizon. He can see the outline of the magnum under his dress shirt, tucked into his belt. Always on guard – much like himself.

Though, Goemon considers, with a potential partner like Lupin, one would want to be on guard more than ever.

His initial – and expected – impression of Daisuke Jigen was that he would be an angry violent man. After all, he had met very few professional hitmen who weren’t angry or violent, or some combination of both. It seemed to run with the business.

From his vantage point on the roof however, Jigen does not appear to be a wholly angry or violent man. Goemon observes silently as the cigarette slowly burns out – puffs of smoke leaping upwards every so often with exhales.

There’s a high laugh from inside. It’s the one Fujiko puts on when she knows she’s getting her way. Only the smallest movement in Jigen’s shoulders gives away his glance towards to the door. Another exhale, and his gaze is once again cast out over the darkening city.

What he’s looking at, Goemon doesn’t know. But he’s observed enough to retract his previous impression and to answer his own small question. Jigen might be an angry man – but he also seems to be a remarkably lonely one.


	3. Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so one, becomes two.

Jigen was glad to see the back of Fujiko when she returned to Japan.

Lupin was less so – although he did make an effort to admire her even as she left.

Jigen smoked and waited in the car.

He’d gone through two cigarettes when Lupin finally joined him again – sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“So,” the thief began, “What did you think?”

Jigen hummed around his third cigarette, “About what?”

“Our new colleagues of course,” Lupin plucked the cigarette from Jigen’s mouth, holding it between two fingers, inspecting it.

“Heavy tar, that’ll kill you.”

Jigen snatched the thin tube back, “Somethin’s gotta.”

“What did you think?”

God, the man was like a dog with a bone. Jigen hummed again, thinking.

“I don’t like Fujiko.”

Lupin opened his mouth to argue but Jigen cut him off, “Goemon is fine.”

“Just fine?” he could practically hear the pout.

“Yes. He’s fine.”

Lupin huffed, “What will it take to please you?”

Jigen didn’t dignify that with an answer – he just relit his cigarette.

Lupin kicked the car into gear and turned onto the street – other things obviously taking over the railroad of his mind that were more important than what Jigen thought of their fellow criminals.

Personally, Jigen would be glad if he never saw Fujiko Mine ever again. The way Lupin had looked at her like a lovesick puppy though, he thought it was unlikely – particularly if he took the thief up on his offer.

“Have you thought about it?”

Maybe the thief in question was psychic.

“The job offer?”

“What else would I be talking about?”

“Yeah I’ve thought about it.”

“Good, do you want in?”

Jigen side eyed the thief. He was staring at the road ahead, expression not giving anything away.

“I don’t normally do open ended contracts.”

“That’s not a no?”

“It’s not a yes.”

Lupin turned the car into a parking spot outside a café that advertised, ‘The BEST 24-hour coffee you’ll EVER drink!’

He looked over once the engine was killed, “What would make it a yes?”

Jigen opened the door and stretched his legs. Lupin followed and looked at him expectantly after they’d ordered their coffee from a girl who looked like she was more interested in her magazine than in serving customers.

“I’d prefer a contract. Terms and conditions. Do’s and don’ts.”

Lupin considered him for a moment, then nodded. He retrieved the coffee from the serving girl with a wink and a compliment in French that went completely unnoticed.

They sat on a bench outside so Jigen could finish his smoke.

“I don’t normally do contracts. I like to work with people who like working with me. It makes things so much easier.”

The European lilt in Lupin’s voice was more noticeable in his voice when he was tired Jigen noted. They were both tired – both hadn’t slept for more than three consecutive hours over the last few days.

“Why do you want me then? Why not find a fan?”

Lupin sipped his coffee – the shop had lied about being the best, it wouldn’t even rate in the top ten on Jigen’s list – and he regarded Jigen with an inscrutable expression.

“Because, you’re the best – from what I’ve heard. And I also like to work with the best.”

Jigen nodded slowly. He wasn’t wrong. He had made a name for himself – he knew that.

Lupin wasn’t finished though, “Also, do you really want to waste away here in America – shooting people for rich assholes with more money than sense?”

He was being baited – Jigen could smell it a mile away, “the rich assholes pay well.”

“I could pay better.”

“Show me a contract and I’ll think about it.”

” You’re a stubborn man Jigen.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The only sounds for a few small moments were the sounds of coffee mugs being lifted and placed back on the table. Finally, Lupin stood, hands in his pockets, looking at something out of reach over Jigen’s shoulder. They walked towards the car again and Lupin startled him by throwing him the keys.

Jigen looked at him – waiting for an explanation.

“I’ll write you a contract if you drive at least forty percent of the time.”

Jigen looked down at the keys. Less than half the time – he could do that.

“Deal.”

They got in the car. Jigen knew the way back to the hotel.

* * *

The contract was fairly simple – but it covered the basics. Six-month term, extension pending agreement via both parties. Fifty percent profit split. Providing Jigen didn’t have to work with Fujiko it looked like a pretty good deal. He signed it the next day.

The day after, Lupin asked if he’d ever been to France. Jigen hadn’t – and Lupin suggested that they go. He had contacts over there, and the ICPO was starting to get hot on his tail in the US after the debacle with that Japanese officer who was sent to arrest Fujiko.

So, within the week Jigen found himself checking in his sniper rifle, pistols and ammunition (legally – for the first time in many years) onto a business class flight to France. Not exactly where he’d seen himself six months ago.

He settled into the chair beside Lupin, who was already chatting excitedly to the airline hostess. She seemed pleased at least to have someone who spoke French on the flight. Languages fascinated Jigen. It always surprised him how different someone could sound simply by switching to a different dialect. French rolled off Lupin’s tongue in a much more elegant way than English did. Maybe it was because Lupin was a flamboyant man, and English simply wasn’t made for flamboyancy in the same way that the language of love was.

Languages brought his two new brief colleagues to mind. He didn’t want to think of Fujiko – but he suspected she would sound as cunning and distasteful in any language she chose.

Goemon’s English was short, clipped. Jigen wondered if he sounded as abrupt in his native Japanese. He suspected he did. The man seemed to be as traditional as they came.

Seeing him in such traditional dress, with such traditional Japanese mannerisms, had awakened a longing in Jigen than he had not felt in a long time. It had been many years since he had thought of returning to Japan. Many years since he had even considered Japan without some sort of animosity.

Maybe one day, he would return.

Not today though – today he was traveling to France.


	4. Il ne parle pas français

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This version is the correct final draft! :)

“…silencer, rifle, both scopes, radios, explosives…have I missed anything?”

Jigen looks through the bag as Lupin counts his suggestions off on his fingers.

“Don’t think so.”

The thief leaps to his feet – all business, “Great! Let’s get ready then!”

Jigen looks at the thief confused. It’s only just past midday. He looks at his watch again to make sure it’s not the jetlag. Nope, definitely just gone twelve. He starts as the thief slaps him good-naturedly on the shoulder. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to Lupin’s blatant disregard for the personal space of his employees.

Said thief was still looking at him with a wide-eyed excited gaze, “Lunch, Jigen! We need lunch!”

That made more sense. He finds his hat and follows Lupin out of the apartment to the café downstairs.

* * *

Jigen doesn’t understand French – he’s never bothered to learn. In another situation the lack of communication might have bothered him – but with Lupin here to translate most things it gives him the opportunity to simply observe in silence.

He prefers it that way anyway. It’s easier for Lupin to wave him away with a shrug and a “ _Il ne parle pas français”_.

They’ve been working together for two weeks and in France for one; and Lupin’s picked up on the general things fairly quickly. He knows the type of coffee Jigen’s likely to order, knows the brands of cigarettes he wants to buy and can guess with unerring accuracy the things he’s likely to eat. Jigen hopes it’s because the thief is very observant and not just because he’s easy to read.

The small café under their apartment is always bustling. Jigen finds their customary table – outside so Jigen can smoke, close to the wall which gets warmed pleasantly by the morning sun. Jigen stretches out while Lupin orders. French sounds good on the thief – much better than English. He titters as the serving girl makes what sounds like a joke. He might not understand, but the tonation seems to be the same across all languages.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he says when Lupin finally turns back to face him.

The thief grins and picks up some sugar packets, inspecting them carefully, “Of course, it’s a beautiful day, and by tonight – and very bad man will be relieved of quite an amount of his fortune. What’s not to be glad about?”

Jigen shrugs and lights his smoke, “Guess you’re right.”

Lupin grins at him again, “I’m mostly right, you’ll find – “he motions for the cigarette, “- bring that this way.”

That gets an actual chuckle out of the gunman. God, the man is arrogant. He passes the cigarette across the table. Lupin takes a drag and makes smoke circles as he exhales. Their food arrives soon after and Lupin thanks the serving girl. She leaves with a shy smile and a blush creeping across her cheeks.

Jigen definitely prefers French on the thief.

* * *

By the time the sun falls, Lupin and Jigen are making their way into the vast estate owned by the minor crime lord they’re about to relieve of his possessions – namely, large amounts of cash. Jigen’s currently high up in a large tree, looking for dogs – the information Lupin has, was that there were few guards, but mostly savage guard dogs around the exterior of the estate.

Vicious or not, Jigen didn’t like killing animals if he didn’t have to, so he’d acquired some tranquilisers especially. Lupin was surprisingly still beside him, binoculars held close to his face, scanning the area. Jigen spotted one large rottweiler and dispatched it easily. One by one the others arrived, each receiving the same sedative dart while Lupin scratched away numbers on a small scrap of paper he’d brought with him.

When Lupin decided that enough of the dogs are neutralised for the next few hours, he elbowed Jigen briefly before climbing down the tree. It was almost too easy, Jigen thought, as they crossed the yard and vaulted through a carelessly opened window on the ground floor.

Once they’re inside, it’s business time – and for the first time, Jigen truly gets to appreciate the skills that Lupin brings to the criminal table without immediately fearing for his life. The man has a fascination for technology, and it works in their favour as he navigates the security of the large vault they find hidden behind a fake wall in the butler’s pantry.

Jigen stands guard while Lupin fishes for his stethoscope to crack the lock. Minutes pass, until finally he hears a triumphant whisper, and the door glides open with barely a creak. The minor crime lord obviously had no fear of being robbed – or he thought himself clever enough to fool potential robbers with the false wall. The cold hard cash was what they were here for tonight, and it was laid out in neat rows on the shelves, just begging to be taken.

Lupin works near silently as he filled the two bags they’d brought with them, replacing the wads of bank notes with scraps of paper. Jigen catches one bag as it gets tossed in his direction and they leave the way they came in, through the window. One of the larger dogs was starting to stir as they passed by. It snuffled, and kicked out its front paws, trying to run in its sleep. Jigen bends and gives it a scratch behind the ears as they walk past. He likes dogs.

They make it back to the apartment in record time and Jigen feels like his grin probably matches Lupin’s for size when they empty the bags out onto the coffee table in the small living room. Lupin picks up a wad of cash and shakes it in the gunman’s direction.

“A job that flawless needs a celebration.”

Jigen couldn’t have agreed more.

* * *

Less than an hour later Jigen finds himself at a fancy bar, drinking liquor that’s about ten times more expensive than he’s used to. His partner in crime is surrounded by a gaggle of women – chittering away in a language that floats over Jigen’s ears. He catches the thief’s eye. Lupin grins widely at him, he’s in his element, that’s for sure. The vapid looks on the girls’ faces around him indicate as much. He’s talking a mile a minute in the local dialect, his voice reaching Jigen in patches – loud and abrasive. The girls laugh loudly and Lupin smiles, he tries to snake an arm around one of the them. She pushes him away with a wink.

The way Lupin is leering at barely covered cleavage either side of him, Jigen thinks he might be getting back to the apartment a lot later than his colleague – to save them both the embarrassment.

The barman refills Jigen’s scotch glass without being asked. Jigen tips his head in thanks, and slides another note across the bar. He doesn’t need to know the local language to point at a scotch bottle and for that he’s thankful. He feels his partners eyes on him and looks over to see him whispering into the ear of one of his many fans. He turns his attention back to a more interesting spectacle – one that he might have a vested interest in; he’s not sure yet. A card table is set up and there appears to be a small crowd gathering around it. He’s feeling lucky tonight and he’s got money to burn.

He glances back over to observe his colleague. The girls are still milling about and hanging on to his every word. The attention he gets puzzles Jigen – not from jealousy – Jigen hasn’t been interested in anything of the sort for years now – but from genuine curiosity. The man isn’t what you’d define as handsome, or good looking – although he does make up for it with charisma in spades.

A buxom brunette slides onto the barstool beside him – leans in close and whispers something he doesn’t understand, her husky voice sliding around French vowels in a way that his has never been able to. He recognizes her as one of the women from Lupins entourage. She leans in with a wink, heavy breasts pressing against his arm on the bar. He might not get the exact translation, but her intent is clear enough. He sighs, pulls his hat down over his eyes and hopes she gets the hint.

She doesn’t – so it’s time to bail.

Jigen downs the last of his glass in one smooth motion; extricates his forearm, then motions at the barman to get his attention. He holds up two fingers and chucks some money on the bar, taking one of the glasses with him as he stands up. The girl looks at him, then at the drink on the bar and pouts. It’s almost a pity – he might have given her an honest to god chance once upon a time.

It’s cooler outdoors and Jigen gets to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes before he hears footsteps behind him. Lupin sidles up beside him. He pulls a cigarette out of his own jacket for once – still motions to Jigen for a match though. Jigen lights Lupin’s smoke with his own, he can’t be bothered to rummage in his pockets for matches.

The man is still full of energy – Jigen can practically feel him bouncing on the balls of his feet. He gets right up close and pushes his hat back, movements exaggerated by his intoxication. Obviously not finding what he was looking for he leans back over the railing, before giving Jigen a sly side-eye.

“Didn’t you like Henrietta?”

Jigen raised an eyebrow, “Who?”

“She was actually very nice – you could have at least given her a chance.”

“You know I don’t speak French at all Lupin.”

“You don’t need to speak French to – “the thief wiggled his eyebrows for effect, as if Jigen didn’t know what he was implying.

Jigen rolls his eyes and drains the last of his scotch, “Doesn’t matter anyway. M’not interested.”

“In Henrietta? That’s okay, I’m pretty sure Julienne was checking you out as well and Charlene def – “

Jigen cuts him off, “I’m not interested at all Lupin”

The thief looks at him incredulously, “Not – at all?”

Jigen shakes his head, he’s had enough of this conversation. He stubs out his cigarette, it’s time for his glass to be refilled, “Not generally no.”

Lupin isn’t don’t with him just yet though.

“Why?” There’s a hand on his arm, a grip like iron. Lupin wants an answer, and intoxicated as he is, he’s going to chew the bone until he gets it, “What kind of girls do you normally go for then? I would have thought there’d be plenty enough choice here tonight – “ 

He motions distantly inside with his free hand.

Jigen sighs, he’s certainly not drunk enough for the rest of this conversation. He likes to keep his personal life personal for a reason after all.

“I just don’t really like women.” He says with finality, watching the thief digest the information slowly.

The iron grip loosens, then Lupin stands up straight, both hands retreating into his pockets. He looks at Jigen like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. As annoyed as he is, it’s fascinating to watch the thief think. You can almost see and hear the gears turning as he works through a problem. Lupin’s face lights up as he reaches his conclusion – whatever that might be.

He slings an arm around Jigen’s shoulder. Now Jigen is the one who’s confused.

“Uhh, Lupin…”

It’s the thief who cuts Jigen off this time, “Well then, what kind of men do you prefer? Do you go for the classically handsome, the mountain of muscle, the suave businessman? – I’m partial to a good business suit on the odd occasion myself…”

Jigen swears and hangs his head as the thief continues to ramble. He needs another half a bottle of scotch at least.


	5. Auctioneers

Jobs with Fujiko are a welcome respite from training.

Training that Goemon is currently becoming increasingly frustrated with. He needs more challenges that his current regime supplies and since his trip to America – Zantetsuken has rendered most of his training subpar.

He no longer needs to practice his balance because Zatetsuken is already perfectly balanced, He does not need to practice his motions because the sword already feels like a natural extension of his body. He does not need to spend time honing the blade – because the edge is already razor sharp and to do so would be an affront to the weapon itself.

He has consulted the ancestors, who continue to stay silent – as is their way – so Goemon knows his training is not yet complete. He consults the sticks; and does not like what he sees, so he puts them aside also. Meditation provides no further insight – only frustrating suggestions.

So; a job with Fujiko when it arises, is an overly welcome respite – finally something else to focus on.

* * *

Goemon monitors the auction room carefully. He spots a few people who are only here for the free wine; who will make a smooth – but hasty – exit when the serious bidding starts. At the back of the room he spies the organiser of the whole event – an ugly middle-aged specimen. The kind of man who only smiles when he knows he already has your money in his pockets.

There is one bidder in particular Fujiko told him to be wary of. One who may require – distraction – when the bidding starts. He is young and green at the trade. He doesn’t yet understand the politics behind the prices.

He scans the room again. Fujiko has already found the young man by the looks of things. If she has her way, he’ll be passed out in a bush outside within the next hour – none the wiser.

Goemon finds a seat and closes his eyes. To the casual onlooker he is merely meditating. It is a cunning ploy as most of the drunk patrons are too stupid to watch their mouths around the ‘still very much listening’ samurai.

Conversations wash over him. Banal pleasantries. ‘How do you do’s’. ‘Oh, you’re looking good these days.’ ‘I’m so glad you haven’t been shot yet.’

Boring.

He hears Fujiko’s name mentioned and it grabs his attention. He directs his focus to two art dealers near him. He recognises them from previous events, a tall pudgy man and a shorter squirrely looking one. Goemon has never bothered to learn their names.

“-she’s looking exceptionally fine tonight. Do you think she’s on the hunt for a companion as well as art?”

The squirrely man huffs softly and licks his lips grotesquely, “I’d just as soon bid on her.”

“Mmmm,” the taller man agrees, “I reckon she’d give more than enough satisfaction with the right – “he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “-persuasions.”

Goemon bristles as the two men continue their increasingly explicit conversation. Were they anywhere else they would be cut down where they stood; but Goemon was under strict instructions tonight. Instructions that he was very close to ignoring.

“You know,” the pudgy one suggests with a conspiratorial wink, “I’ve got a few of my own – ‘persuasives’ handy.”

The second man leans in close and Goemon has to close his eyes to hear what is said next.

“I’m interested, go on.”

Slightly breathless. Excited.

“Well,” the fist man rubs his hands together – Goemon can hear the sweaty friction. “We get the lovely lady a nicely prepared drink – “

An ugly snicker passes between them. And Goemon thought it was impossible to dislike them more than he already did.

“ -then – “ the pudgy man is continuing, sounding more excited with every word, “in about twenty minutes she should be right as rain to accompany us upstairs to a more –“

He clicks his tongue again. Goemon wants to cut it off.

“Private setting.”

Wrong.

The squirrelly man hums in agreement, a high nasally sound. Goemon has heard enough.

He stands, instructions be damned. He follows the two men to the foyer where all patrons were required to leave their larger items after the last auctions ‘fiasco’.

He walks up behind the two men -silent as a mouse- as they rummage through a bag placed on a tall bench. He clears his throat. One of them, the squirrelly looking man recognises him and Goemon can smell the fear.

“A moment please, gentlemen.”

Fujiko preferred people to be threatened, rather than dead. Something about them being easier to blackmail when they were alive. Goemon did not see the point. People were no bother when they were dead.

The taller man, the ringleader, either didn’t recognise Goemon, or he was too stupid to realise the kind of danger he was in. His eyes scrunch together as he squints in Goemon’s direction.

“You’re Fujiko’s pet.”

Goemon amended his deduction. Did recognise – just stupid.

“Watch your mouth or I will gut you where you stand.”

Unfortunately, his words had more of an effect on the shorter man – who obviously had an ounce more self-preservation than his colleague. He tried to edge away in Goemon’s periphery. Goemon trimmed his hair as he swung Zantetsuken to block his retreat. The man dropped to his knees – snivelling.

The stupid one was still unaffected it seemed. Fortunate for Goemon – unfortunate for him. He was holding up a small baggy of pills like a peace deal, an ugly smile stretched across his waxy features.

“You ever fucked her? Pet?” He spat in Goemon’s direction. “I bet you’d like to – she’s one hot piece of ass.”

Ignorant fool. Goemon takes the baggy in one hand, the other holding his sword tip against the man’s trachea. With one swift motion the pills inside it are crushed into a fine powder. He places the baggy on the bench and reaches for the mans wine glass. The mans eyes widen as realisation filters through inebriation. He starts to struggle as Goemon pours every last particle of powder into the glass. His partner in crime is a shaking mess on the floor.

With his sword tip still balanced precariously against the mans neck, Goemon holds the wine glass up to quivering lips.

“Drink.” Goemon commands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise –“Tears were leaking down the man’s ugly cheeks. Goemon considers him for a moment.

“You promise, no, you swear on your life and by your ancestors –“

“Anything, Anything!”

“-that you will never disrespect a woman, nor shirk her honour as you were going to do tonight?”

“Yes, Yes! My life – my ancestors – anything!”

Pitiful. Goemon re-sheathes Zantetsuken back at his waist to the blubbered thanks of the man in front of him.

“Say it. I will never disrespect a woman like this again.”

“Thank you-thank you, I will never ever disrespect a woman again – thank you.”

Goemon nods slowly – then, just as in training – with the speed of a snake, he grabs the man’s nose and forces the liquid down his throat. He will be unconscious in four minutes.

“You are correct.” Goemon says over the whining and the spluttering of the two men, “Because next time you will die.”

He leaves them to snivel and makes his way back to the main hall, where the bidding will soon be starting.

* * *

Goemon takes his seat at the back of the hall feeling both calmer and more on edge than before. He is sorry he didn’t kill the men. They would have deserved it. He searches the room for his employer, but when he finds her it does nothing to ease his tension.

The ugly man’s voice continues to reverberate through his head.

_“You ever fucked her?”_

So crass. So disrespectful. So-

Goemon does not want to think about Fujiko like that. To think about her like that would be unprofessional at best, sacrilege at worst. He takes a breath to quiet his mind, to centre himself.

Fujiko is only a few rows ahead of him, seated beside the potentially troublesome young man. She seems to have him under control – her body is angled so he can see down her top with very little effort, and one of his hands rests lightly on her thigh where the fabric of her short skirt meets skin.

_“You ever fucked her?”_

The voice taunts Goemon again. The young man wants to. Goemon can see it in his eyes, in his body language. His hand slips under her skirt as she raises an arm to bid. Goemon feels an overwhelming urge to separate the man’s arm from the rest of his body.

He closes his eyes. He will hear if something goes amiss. He does not want to watch any further. Tonight’s events have already rattled him in ways that make him feel uncomfortable and ill – and he does not wish to dissect those emotions further.

* * *

The end of the auction could not come soon enough for Goemon. The plan had been executed perfectly – Fujiko had upped the bidding just enough without overdoing it (and without any interference from her young friend). As expected, the organiser wasn’t going to turn down the valuable original piece Fujiko had contributed, and had entered the bidding himself.

With the profits and the artwork both in his possession it was time for the second – and arguably more interesting part of the plan to take place. The robbery.

Fujiko’s young friend had stumbled out the door some time ago, a look on his face that said he’d definitely received one of Fujiko’s fake numbers.

Goemon was standing back out of sight, waiting for the signal from Fujiko in case she required assistance. She was in the doorway of the organiser’s office, leaning against the doorframe as she spoke. Minutes later she was inside the room. Goemon moved so that he could see in, but remain out of sight. The organiser looked like he was going to have a heart attack any day now. His waxy features could give the man from earlier a run for his money. No. Don’t think about that man. That man is gone, unconscious.

Unease raced through Goemon’s gut as he watched Fujiko lay a delicate hand on the mans ample chest. He took a deep breath. There was no need to be uneasy – Fujiko was good at what she did. The mans fat fingers rolled down her slender back, gripping her buttocks through her skirt. She giggled at something he said, and nausea rocketed through Goemon’s body. He felt physically ill as the man tried to ruck up her skirt – the discomfort only easing when she retrieved her trademark perfume anaesthetic, and sent the man into a blissful dreamless sleep.

_“You ever fucked her?”_

Goemon carried the money and artwork out to the car they’d rented for this evening. He sat silent as Fujiko drove them back to the apartment she was leasing under a fake name. The money was more than they expected, and the return of the artwork was a bonus – but Goemon didn’t know if any of it was worth it anymore.

* * *

Even the ritual of tea was not calming Goemon’s ragged nerves.

If Fujiko had noticed something was amiss, she wasn’t saying anything. She went about preparing the tea in her usual fashion, adding a splash of whatever liquor she had in her hip flask before passing a cup to Goemon.

She sits opposite him at the low table, eyes closed, sipping her tea. With her eyes closed Goemon can look, and observe freely.

She is beautiful – that is merely an objective fact. She is beautiful and she knows how to abuse it. This was why the men always flocked to her – why they jumped at the chance to be by her side, to touch her, to kiss her.

_“You ever fucked her? I bet you’d like to.”_

Goemon squeezes his eyes shut as if that would stop the voice on repeat. He focuses his gaze on Fujiko once more. Her eyes are open now and she meets his gaze with a small smile on her lips.

She is beautiful – in the same way a summer storm is beautiful. Breathtaking to look at from afar as it rolls over the mountains – dangerous and destructive as soon as you get too close.

Goemon feels suddenly off-balance, the room feels too small and stuffy. He aches to go outside and find someplace to re-centre himself. He tries to look in other places but his gaze keeps getting drawn back to Fujiko. Fujiko, who’s shirt is not quite buttoned up enough to leave everything to the imagination. Fujiko, who’s legs are spread just enough that he can see – no. He rips his gaze upwards, feels the beginnings of a hot flush spreading across his cheeks.

He feels her sit beside him, she takes one of his hands in her own, laces their fingers together.

“Goemon,” her voice is low – the same steady seductive tones that filled him with such nausea hours earlier outside the auctioneer’s office.

It’s those tones that snap him out of his reverie.

He pulls his hand away as if burned. Looks directly at her face, not at her half open blouse, her rucked up skirt, her bare feet tucked beneath her. He meets her gaze and he is not impressed.

“Do you think me as simple and malleable as the rest of your men?”

His voice sounds angry, even to himself. His frustrations from the day are finally bubbling to the surface and it is difficult to reign them in.

“Goemon, no –“

She has the common decency to look down at her knees – hopefully in shame.

“I am not here simply for you to seduce. I do not stay here simply because I want to fuck you -” His cheeks feel hot as he speaks the words out loud.

She looks back up at him, red across her own cheeks. Embarrassed.

“I know that, Goemon. I never meant…”

Goemon decides that he doesn’t want to find out what she never meant. He has figured out where he needs to work on his training. He stands swiftly, retrieves Zantetsuken from where it sits beside the door.

He bows briefly in Fujiko’s stunned direction before he leaves. Even angry, he is not completely devoid of common manners.

“Goodbye Fujiko. I have training to complete. If you require me, contact the dojo.”

He doesn’t look or listen to see if she responds. The night air is cool on his skin as he begins the long walk home. The silence helps clear his own heavy mind.

_You ever fucked her? I bet you’d like to._

Goemon groans out load at the harsh intrusive voice.

“Yes,” he growls out to no-one in particular, “Yes, I would like to.”

He waits for the voice to answer him. To berate him, to mock him.

There is nothing but blessed silence.


	6. An American Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been incredibly motivated - also I'm on holidays from my proper adult job so I've had time to kill - hence the supremely hectic updates.  
> On another note, I have a favour to ask you, the readers:  
> My original plan was for this fic to eventually become explicit - what I would like to know, is if there are any huge objections to potential future explicitness down the line (I know some people aren't as into the full frontal explicit stuff - and given that this will be exploring polyamory it might get a bit hot and heavy)  
> Feel free to leave a comment - or, if you don't like commenting, you can hit me up on tumblr at:- 'https://temporary-dysphoria.tumblr.com/ask'  
> I'm just after some opinions to gauge which direction I might go with this.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of training, meditation, compartmentalising.

Two weeks before Fujiko contacted the dojo and asked Goemon to ‘please meet her at their usual café’.

When he arrives, she is already seated – seemingly busy with a newspaper in front of her. He waits for the awkward greeting, for the request of an explanation about his behaviour. To his surprise, there is none.

She stands when she see’s him, and greets him with a warm hug – throwing him off balance.

“Let’s walk” she says – and so they walk.

She talks as they walk, but Goemon senses there is something underlying the casual conversation. Fujiko stops in the middle of a park bridge, looks over the side and tosses some of her cake crumbs to the ducks below. It takes him a long minute to realise.

“You are leaving again.”

Fujiko gives him a small smile, “I am.”

“America?”

“Yes.”

Goemon nods, digesting this information. She takes his hand in two of her own, and he’s struck by a parallel to the last time they were in a similar position.

“Fujiko – “he starts.

“I’m sorry – about before,” she squeezes his hand gently, “I – misread the situation. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Goemon swallows, “I too, acted foolishly, and likewise, I apologise.”

She laces their fingers together, and looks back over the duck pond, smiling at the ducklings bobbing around in the water.

“Will you come with me to America?”

Goemon looks down, at their linked fingers. He feels a heat start to build beneath his cheeks. Everything is going too fast again. For a moment he’s sucked back to that previous night, with liquor spiked tea and the fat man’s voice, ‘ _You ever –“_

“I don’t know.” He says quickly, “I still have much training to complete.”

Fujiko nods slowly, “Will you come to America if I need you?”

Goemon hears the difference. He’s being given an out – if he wants it. Does he want it? He’s not so sure anymore.

He bows his head in lieu of an answer, “of course.”

She smiles at him again, obviously content with that answer. They walk back towards the street and its only when they reach the entrance of the park that Fujiko unlaces her fingers from his own.

She turns to face him full on, and Goemon wonders if this is what it feels like to be a deer in the headlights. She stands on her toes and places both hands on his shoulders before dragging him down to embrace. She places a kiss on the edge of his mouth and his skin burns where her lips touch.

“Goemon,” her voice is soft near his ear, “You know, that it’s okay to want things, or people.”

He hums his assent, not trusting his own voice.

She leans back and looks into his face, searching for something, “It’s okay – especially when other people also want things…or people.”

Now he really doesn’t trust his voice. She releases him from her arms, and stands back, smoothing down the front of her blouse where it got crumpled by the contact.

He gives her a brief bow. She blows him a kiss in return. They go their separate ways – but it doesn’t feel quite as bad or as permanent as before.

* * *

“Come to America again,” Fujiko had said, voice echoing slightly down the long-distance line.

“It’ll be fun,” Goemon muttered to himself in a vicious mockery of her prim voice.

It was not fun. As far as Goemon was concerned – there was no part of America that was even in the slightest bit fun. America was hot. It was muggy and dirty. And to add insult to injury – he couldn’t find the address for the meeting spot Fujiko had given him to meet Lupin, even though he felt as though he had been searching for hours.

He was very close to just giving up and returning to Japan. To ring Fujiko from the safety of his own, much cooler, country and demand answers as to why she thought it was a good idea to send him on a wild goose chase for a clown who couldn’t be bothered to show up at his own meeting place.

He feels the sweat beading under his clothing and down the sides of his face. He shakes his head to no avail. A semi-familiar Borsalino catches his eye. Hours ago, he might have been pleased – but now he was too full of pent up frustration to feel anything but annoyed.

Jigen is leaning against a wall – smoking. He doesn’t appear to be affected by the heat at all. There isn’t a hair out of place on the man, from his suit jacket right down to his leather shoes. Goemon hates him for it. He stalks closer, glowering at him. Training and inner peace long since boiled away by the stifling heat – he’s ready to curse the gunman and all of his ancestors to hell and back.

Jigen lifts his head and his eyes rake over Goemon as he approaches, expression giving away nothing. The sudden attention makes Goemon stand up straight. He waits for Jigen to say something, but the gunman is silent. He motions at a closed door behind him, up a small flight of stairs – before turning his attention back to the street.

Goemon is two steps from the top of the staircase when he realises that Jigen isn’t following him. He turns back, the gunman hasn’t moved.

“Are you coming?”

Jigen fixes him with an inscrutable gaze from under his hat brim. He looks pointedly at the cigarette between his fingers, then turns his back again – point obviously made. Goemon seethes at the rudeness and opens the door. Does America rob people of common courtesy as well as their money? Whatever. The gunman can stay outside in the stifling, muggy heat. Goemon hopes he suffers through every last drag of his cigarette.

A blast of cool air hits his face as he enters the small flat – he sends a silent prayer of thanks to his ancestors for small mercies.

Lupin is reading a book that looks big enough to double as a weapon. When he sees Goemon he leaps to his feet, dropping the tome with a loud ‘thud’.

“Goemon! You came!”

“Yes, I – “his words are cut off as he finds himself with an armful of Frenchman.

“I’m so glad!” He’s released from the impromptu embrace, “Jigen has been such a bore – I don’t think he likes the heat – I find it quite refreshing personally.”

“Oh”

Goemon refrained from commenting on how Lupin was the man inside the cool flat while Jigen was currently outside. Not that he would have had a chance, the thief was still talking, not appearing to care if he was listening or not.

“– and there’s so much to see! There’s a brilliant museum down the street with some simply stunning impressionist pieces and he doesn’t even want to go and have a teeny tiny look…”

“Lupin,” Goemon’s patience was not yet recovered enough to deal with – whatever this domestic situation was.

The thief stops mid-sentence, “Yes?”

“Why am I here?”

Lupin mouths the words back silently, ‘why are you…’

Goemon presses on, “Fujiko said you have need of me.”

Lupin’s eyes widen comically – at the mention of Fujiko’s name, or because he regathered his train of thought, Goemon can’t tell.

“Oh, right! Yes, I need you to cut something for me!”

“You,” Goemon could not believe it. He watches in stunned disbelief as the thief dives back into the pile of books, looking for something. He has been brought here – halfway across the globe – to this hot, muggy, godforsaken hellhole – to ‘cut’ something.

“Are you sure you did not have a closer samurai handy?”

Even he can hear the irate tone in his voice, but Lupin either doesn’t hear it or is refusing to acknowledge it.

“Nope!” Lupin rises from his pile with a smaller book than the one he had previously, “You’re the only one I know! Also, you come with Fujiko’s recommendation and that means a lot to me because she’s been very helpful this last month – come to think of it, she was very insistent that I ask you – maybe she wants you over here for one of her jobs too…”

The thief trails off, looking out the window, “Doesn’t matter!” He holds the book up triumphantly, “I’ve got you first! And that’s the main thing! Now, look at this -”

Goemon starts to listen more intently as Lupin lays out his plan for swiping the lockbox from its current owner, ‘a very disagreeable fellow’. He and Jigen have already scouted out the area -the man in question is one of Jigen’s old associates, so they’ve got up to date information of schedules and back doors.

“We’ve got a grace period of exactly 40 minutes, between these two shifts because this is when they go upstairs to smoke.” Lupin explains. This is the most serious Goemon has ever seen him. “We’ll be inside by then, and it shouldn’t take more than 8 minutes to crack a lock that old. We’ll lift the lockbox and we should be out of there by the time they’re back. If you can meet us – “he points at a map he’s got laid out flat on the coffee table, “-here; we can cover any tracks and have the thing open by dinnertime.”

It’s a solid plan, Goemon agrees, as he studies the map of the surrounding area. It eases Goemon’s mind to know that at least when push comes to shove the thief can be professional – even if his initial impression suggested otherwise. The paper is covered in two distinct scripts – one flowing cursive (Lupin’s – he’s received enough notes to be able to tell it at a distance). The second must be Jigen’s, narrow italics outlining what looks like distances and angles from various heights.

Speak of the devil. Lupin was still prattling away when Goemon noticed the front door open, and saw Jigen slink back inside – making a beeline for the empty sofa. Before long, the man was hidden behind a large newspaper, still without a single word spoken to either of his two colleagues.

Goemon was finding this current persona of Jigen’s, disappointing. Of all of the criminals, he had felt the most kinship with the lanky gunman during their short time together. Yet here he was – looking thoroughly de-fanged, on a patchy sofa – showing absolutely no interest in anything going on around him.

He briefly considers asking the thief if this is normal – but he notes that despite Lupin’s gregarious attitude, he too seems to be avoiding speaking to Jigen unless he absolutely has to. He starts to feel uncomfortably like he is stuck in the middle of an invisible domestic war.

He is actually thankful when Lupin takes him by the arm to go down the street to a café for food. Anything to leave the tense atmosphere in the flat behind him.

* * *

In the evening, Goemon takes the spare room because Jigen has claimed the sofa in lieu of an actual bed.

He wakes suddenly to raised voices. He shakes his head, before creeping silently down the hallway – Zantetsuken by his side – not wanting to give away his position. He steels himself for an intruder, but is surprised to only see his two colleagues in the living room – barely an arm’s length away from each other.

Jigen’s hat is lying discarded on the coffee table and his expression looks like thunder. He’s spitting words at Lupin in a language Goemon isn’t familiar with. Lupin is answering in kind, in what sounds like a weird amalgamation of French, English and Japanese. When insults have been traded enough for both sides, the original argument starts up afresh, and Goemon wonders if he should even be here to be listening.

The raised voices are gone – Jigen’s tone is now flat, laced with venom, “I’m not working with her.”

Lupin crosses his arms; this is a rehashed argument, Goemon realises.

“She’s not that bad. You’ve just got to give her a chance.”

Jigen’s eyebrows raise all the way into his hairline, “A chance to what? To fuck us over? Again? No thanks. Once was enough.”

“Last time was a misunderstanding.”

Goemon has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly who they are talking about, before names are even mentioned. They both have their arms folded across their chests now – both stubborn as bulls, neither giving any quarter on their respective sides.

“I’m not doing it.”

“You signed a contract.”

“Fuck the contract. If it involves working with her again, I’m out.”

Goemon can see Jigen is deadly serious – he wonders if Lupin has picked up on it, he would hope so; the men have been working together for some time now.

Lupin seems to chew on his words for a moment, before trying a different tactic, “We’ve already made the plans, you can’t back out now.”

Jigen shrugs, “I do what I damn well please. You back Fujiko out – I’ll do the job. If you don’t... “

The end of the sentence is perfectly clear. The room falls silent, neither man willing to back down or cooperate. Lupin tilts his head, looking all for the world, like an old-world aristocrat, looking down his nose at the gunman, and Goemon can see as soon as he moves his head, he’s made a mistake.

Jigen’s expression turns murderous. He reaches for his hat, slams it onto his head and turns straight on his heel towards the door. The silence is broken by the click of a gun’s safety – Lupin’s gun.

“Don’t just go, Jigen,” his tone is softer now, he realises he’s misjudged, “It’s the middle of the night for Christ’s sake.”

Tone doesn’t seem to matter to Jigen; who, having seen the gun, has immediately drawn his own. It’s a western shootout in the middle of the flat. It’s all down to whoever makes the first move. Lupin – probably sensing defeat, drops his arm to his side. Jigen shoves his own revolver unceremoniously back into his belt, before turning to the door.

There is no more sound, apart from the sharp crash as the door gets slammed shut. Lupin sits back heavily on the sofa Jigen had been lying on for most of the afternoon – probably for most of the last week, Goemon realises; the bed in the spare room hasn’t been slept in at all.

He enters the room carefully, not wanting to give away how much he’s actually heard. Lupin waves in his general direction, and sighs – somehow turning the noise into a full body motion.

“Sorry,” the thief motions with one hand towards the door, “about all that.”

Goemon nods briefly to acknowledge the apology, “Jigen is – unhappy – with current circumstances.”

Lupin nods glumly, rubbing the back of his neck, “He doesn’t want to work with Fujiko. She uhh…well to put it bluntly she backstabbed us about three weeks ago. Cost us 4.4 million US dollars.”

“Hmmm,” Goemon takes a seat on the far end of the sofa from Lupin, “I would say that I am surprised but…”

“I’m not even surprised!” Lupin raises his hands in defeat, “I saw it coming a mile away and I was just hoping she wouldn’t!”

Lupin gesticulates a lot more with his hands when he is upset. He could have made a wonderful actor had he taken to the stage as opposed to the underworld.

“Are we still going on with the heist?” Goemon asks.

Lupin shuffles the papers in front of him, looking for his map. When he finds it he examines it carefully, “Yea, we’ll do it together instead if Jigen doesn’t –“

He lets the sentence trail off as he continues to examine the paper, “Anyway, he’ll be back,” like he’s certain Jigen will just waltz back through the door in the next few hours.

“Are you sure about that?”

Goemon isn’t slow enough to miss the twitch of Lupin’s mouth before he answers, “Of course! He’ll be back.”

Goemon tilts his head, “Of course.”

Goemon returns to the spare bedroom and wonders who, of the two of them, Lupin was trying convince more.


	7. Inhale. Exhale.

Nearly two full days later and there’s still no sign of the third part of their rag-tag team returning to the flat.

Fujiko has bowed out of the job on her own accord. She’s found something more interesting to play with, or so she tells Lupin.

Goemon watches Lupin’s brow furrow with concentration and worry as he tries each of Jigen’s safe-house numbers in the area, when he thinks the samurai isn’t looking. His mouth turns down and he makes a disappointed grumble every time the phone rings through to the answering machines.

Goemon asks him once if he truly believes that Jigen will return – and the man answers him with such confidence that he doesn’t want to ask again. Instead Goemon studies the maps, and the building layouts. As much as he wants to believe Lupin, the murderous look on Jigen’s face when he left is still burned into his retinas, and he doesn’t think the gunman will be back in the near future.

* * *

The building they are breaking into is a large warehouse. They enter through the second last door on the right, which takes them down a narrow walkway across what probably used to be a thriving construction floor. The room they’re looking for is in a dangerously high traffic area, even with the information regarding smoke breaks – so Goemon is on edge from the minute they set foot in the foreboding concrete box.

They find the room easily enough with the help of Jigen’s maps – and Lupin wastes no time in working on the lock. For minutes – there is no sound apart from the tap, tap tapping of Lupin and his tools.

The tapping puts Goemon on edge as well. Even when Lupin stops every now and then to listen, the fact that it is loud enough to drown out the noise in his peripheral hearing unnerves him greatly. He cannot make the first move if he cannot hear his attackers.

A door swings down the hall and closes with a bang. Goemon chances a look from the doorway and sees no-one. It’s almost, too quiet.

“Lupin” he whispers.

The thief shoots him an annoyed glare from his position on the floor.

He presses on, “I am -uneasy.”

Lupin rolls his eyes, “We haven’t even been here ten minutes.”

Goemon knows the whispers don’t carry – but in the empty hallway it feels like they do. His head hurts as he tries to articulate his worry.

“It is too quiet.”

Lupin raises his eyebrows.

“Do you not feel it?”

Lupin shakes his head, “The only thing I feel is regret for eating that bagel this morning – now quit gabbing, and start listening for footsteps.”

The tapping is getting louder. It’s like Lupin doesn’t even care that they’re trying to be inconspicuous. Goemon turns and the movement makes his head spin. His head aches as he tries to push his thoughts together. He connects the dots, but not fast enough.

“Lupin, Lupin!”

The thief’s lips are ruby red and Goemon curses himself for not noticing earlier. He looks up at Goemon again, annoyance written on his face. Goemon sees his eyes scan down his features, and knows immediately that he’s seen what Goemon has seen.

“They knew.”

Goemon’s heart is pounding in his chest as he registers Lupins words. There’s one thing that worries him above all else though, even in their current state, “Jigen didn’t…”

“No.” Lupin’s disagreement is hard and firm, “No. This is not Jigen’s fault.”

The thief purses his lips, their rosy colour a stark contrast to his pale skin. It will be impossible to tell how long they’ve been exposed to the carbon monoxide. For all they know, they’ve been breathing it in since they arrived in the building. Goemon’s chest starts to hurt, he scrunches his eyes up against the pain. When he opens his eyes again, Lupin’s are closed and the thief is lying motionless. Goemon tries to move towards him but his legs feel like jelly. He makes half a step before he falls, every muscle in his body protesting at even the slightest movement.

He closes his eyes, and he prays to the ancestors that Jigen did not betray them.

* * *

Goemon wakes before Lupin does. A quick survey of the room reveals nothing to assist him. He can hear Lupin breathing beside him – he confirms it’s the thief with a turn of his neck. His muscles ache with movement. He flexes his wrists experimentally, finds them bound by some sort of leather material.

He can see Zantetsuken on the table, along with Lupin’s pistol. Only seeing the two weapons brings him an eerie sort of relief, as he puts two and two together. Jigen has not betrayed them – or if he has, he has not done a very good job of it. Goemon knows exactly how many more weapons Lupin has concealed on his person, and if none of them bar the pistol have made their way to the table, then its very unlikely the men who poisoned them know exactly who they’re dealing with.

Lupin stirs beside him, coughs once, twice. He swears lowly, and Goemon can hear the stretch of leather as he too tries to flex his arms and finds them bound.

“Shit.”

“Indeed,” Goemon could not think of a better word to describe their situation.

Further attempts to loosen his bonds were interrupted by the entry of who Goemon can only assume is the man who gave the order to fill the rooms with gas – and not the man who actually did it.

He looks slimy, and when he smiles at the two men – barely showing his teeth, the very act makes Goemon feel dirty.

“Well, well,” he begins, leaning over the table that held their weapons.

Monologuing. There was nothing Goemon hated more – than when assholes had to spend more time than necessary inflating their egos.

Their captor was still speaking, “What do you want with my locked room?”

When neither of them answers, he rolls his eyes.

“Let’s try again,” he starts conversationally, “I know _who_ you are Lupin the Third – now _what_ do you want with my locked room? And _where_ is the other member of your little group?”

He emphasises his words, who, what where, with slaps to the thief’s face. When Lupin doesn’t answer again, he turns and motions to two men lurking in the doorway.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Goemon to realise what the assortment of items on the table are – as one of the men picks up a sturdy looking metal pipe with two hands. It takes a second embarrassingly long moment for Goemon to realise that the third member the men are talking about is Jigen.

Another eerie thread of relief flows through him as he makes the connection and confirms that they definitely haven’t been betrayed – followed by a smoky tendril of fear as he realises that puts them in even more danger.

He barely notices that the man has started talking again.

“-the last we heard he was hanging around you like a lost puppy; when he still owes us money and time. So, tell me Lupin, where is Jigen?”

Lupin is staring straight ahead like he doesn’t even hear. Goemon hears. And he can almost feel the broken rib himself as the metal pipe swings into Lupin’s chest.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” is the wheezed reply.

Goemon tests the restraints again – leather is supple if you work it enough – although he suspects time is not exactly on his side right now.

With enough movement he can potentially dislocate his thumbs to slip out. Focused as the men are on Lupin, they probably wouldn’t notice until he was behind them with his sword in hand.

He closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing. He tunes out the next heavy whack of metal hitting skin beside him. He will have only minutes after dislocation to slip the restraints before swelling sets in.

He inhales. The sounds of the men’s increasingly frustrated voices fade away.

He exhales. Lupin’s wheezing fades into nothingness.

 _Inhale._ The fog over his mind lifts. He can clearly see his next actions in his minds eye.

 _Exhale._ A gunshot pierces the silence. There’s a thud from above as a body hits the floor.

 _Inhale._ He hears footsteps. One. Two. Three. Another gunshot. Another thud.

 _Exhale._ Goemon opens his eyes. The men are looking around confused. He hears footsteps getting closer and closer, until the door swings open; revealing a tall lanky figure, not a hair out of place from the Borsalino perched on his head, right down to his leather shoes.

He leans against the doorway like he’s there for a conversation instead of a rescue. Their captors splutter into action – but Goemon realises with grim satisfaction, that these men were dead before the door even opened. Quicker than his eyes can follow – quicker than the three men can reach for their own weapons – three shots ring out in the small room. Only one man manages to get a hand on his gun, not that it makes a difference.

Goemon takes in the three bodies on the floor, each with identical bullet holes carved into them. He takes in the gunman in the doorway, arm outstretched, unlit cigarette still in his mouth.

He recalls his own thoughts clearly, from months ago, when he had compared Jigen to a tame dog chained up beside the caricature of a man now beside him. Recalls his own thoughts mere days ago – when he had thought the man de-fanged and disinterested.

Now, when he looks at the gunman – he is reminded of a different beast entirely.

_His father used to keep Tosa Inu’s as guard dogs on the estate when he was very small. As a child, he never saw them as ferocious – they would lounge around and let him play with them until his hearts content._

_It was only when he was older that he caught glimpse of the other side of the otherwise peaceful animals. An intruder on the estate had alerted the dogs. Just as Goemon had enemies now – so did his father back then. He remembers watching his favourite dog – a large placid thing, who used to lie with him in the sun – turn into a rabid, ferocious, killing machine, right before his eyes._

_When the intruder was dead, she returned to him, mouth bloody and laid at his feet. She rolled onto her back, exposing her stomach. He leaned down to pet her – ignoring the sharp, metallic smell of blood on her fur._

Much like his faithful Tosa Inu, Goemon can see that his initial deduction of the gunman’s character was not too far off the mark. The man is not an inherently violent man, in fact, for all intents and purposes he could be considered rather placid. 

He is only placid for so long however. Only placid until he is provoked.

* * *

Bindings are cut and Jigen hoists Lupin up underneath his shoulders. Goemon hears a mumbled, “You came back,” but there’s no reply – and the rest of their hasty exit from the warehouse is silent.

Jigen moves Lupin bodily into the backseat of the car, before getting into the drivers seat himself. Goemon takes the passenger seat, and as the car starts to move, he turns around to check on the thief behind him. Lupin’s chest is turning a motley blue colour underneath his collar, but there are no other obvious injuries that he can see. Jigen drives them to the outskirts of the city, and pulls up outside a small apartment block. He hands Goemon a key.

“Number 4” he grunts before he opens the back door and pulls Lupin up to a sitting position.

As soon as Goemon opens the door he can tell the apartment is one of Jigen’s. It’s sparse, but liveable. He does a rudimentary check of the rooms. Kitchen is clear, coffee mugs on the sink, newspaper on the small table, open to the crossword. Bathroom is likewise clear, one towel on the hook, toothbrush left on the sink. The only bedroom has a hastily made double bed in it and a dresser. Also, clear. Satisfied, Goemon returns to the living room where Lupin is looking incredibly uncomfortable on the sofa.

His shirt is undone and he’s definitely cracked a rib or two. Jigen throws him a bag of ice from the kitchen that he catches with a soft, ‘oof.’

The gunman returns with a glass and handful of pills. Lupin takes them with a mumbled thanks, and swallows them all at once. Goemon is not sure what he is supposed to do now. The others have not specified that he is not welcome – but he gets the uncomfortable feeling that he is now intruding.

He declines the offered cigarette from Jigen and stands. Lupin’s eyes follow him.

“Where are you going Goemon?”

He doesn’t know. Japan. Fujiko. The path is unclear.

“I don’t know,” he replies.

“Don’t go yet,” Lupin says, “We still need you to do the ughh-“

His voice trails off into a groan as he moves too much in one direction.

“We still need you to open the box.”

It was slightly unnerving to hear Jigen’s baritone after so long of having him be a silent observer.

“The box?”

Lupin nods, “Jigen lifted it – “he smiles like a proud parent, “On his way in, when he realised, we didn’t have it.”

“You,” Goemon is very confused now, “How?”

Jigen places a heavy metal box on the table before leaning over the back of the sofa, behind the thief, “I had a contact who owed me,” his mouth twists into a lopsided grin, “not that he remembered, I had to remind him.”

Goemon opens his mouth, then shuts it again, digesting the new information, “I see.”

Jigen rolls his shoulders until they pop, then returns to the kitchen. Lupin cranes his neck to try and look. Unable to see, he resorts to saying loudly, “If you’re making coffee, I want one too.”

He settles back into the sofa, hugging the ice to his chest, “I told you he’d come back,” he says triumphantly, as though he hadn’t spent the last three days like a frantic mother hen looking for her last chick.

Goemon nods, “You did.”

Lupin grins widely at him, “So, after you help us open the box, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. Right now, all he wants to do is sleep, “I do have, other projects, that will require my attention soon enough.”

Lupin’s grin falters a bit at that. Goemon does not understand why. He understands wanting to work together, but the thief will be holed up for at least four weeks with those ribs, and Goemon has no patience for sitting idly by with absolutely nothing to do.

“Come back for another job when I’m back on my feet,” Lupin says, as though he can read the samurai’s mind, “I promise I won’t let you get strung up next time too! Swear on my heart!”

Goemon nods his head once in Lupins direction to acknowledge the request, “You may contact me – if you need me.”

“Good!” Lupin grins widely again, before he yawns loudly, “those drugs are – really something. I might need a – nap.”

Goemon starts to move towards the kitchen as Lupin leans down to rest his head against a pillow, “That would probably be for the best.”

Jigen is leaning on bent arms over the counter when he arrives in the kitchen.

“You want coffee too?”

“I have never drunk that particular beverage.”

Jigen hums, “Don’t try this then, it’ll turn you off of it for life. Shit’s dead-set rocket fuel and tastes about as good.”

He leaves a cup of black liquid on the table, and takes a second mug into the living room. When he returns, he sits and takes a sip of his own mug. He makes a face.

“Bitter fucking garbage.”

Goemon takes the seat opposite, and deliberates on how to pose his questions without sounding threatening or accusing.

Why did you leave and not contact us? Why did you turn up at the last minute? How did you know to turn up at the last minute? Who told you where we would be? Did you know what Lupin was like for those three frustrating days when you weren’t around and couldn’t be contacted?

He inhales. One thing at a time. Exhales.

“Why did you come back?”

Jigen looks at him, he can see his eyes from underneath his hat that he hasn’t taken off even though he’s inside. His expression is one of contemplation.

“I signed a contract.”

* * *

It is late in the afternoon when Goemon leaves Jigen and Lupin in the small apartment. Jigen had said he could stay as long as he needed, but Goemon felt like he was intruding on something private.

Now that Jigen has returned to the world of the speaking, the dynamic in the apartment has changed from when Goemon first arrived. He can’t put his finger on what specifically has altered, but the very air is charged – making him feel tense in both his mind and his body.

He retrieves his phone from a pocket inside his hakama. There are three numbers in the contacts list now. He brings up the first one and rings.

It rings four times before it gets picked up. He exhales with relief as he hears the familiar voice down the line.

“Fujiko, we have concluded our business. May I, meet with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Artistic licence was taken regarding the swiftness of the effects of carbon monoxide, and with the immediate effects/symptoms of broken ribs (that shit would be super painful and Lupin probably would have actually just punched anyone who tried to touch him in the face before lying down in a ball of pain.)  
> 2.) Tosa Inu's are like, Japanese Mastiffs - look kinda dopey, but hella loyal and ferocious when they need to be.  
> 3.) Jigen is a coffee snob. Fight me.


	8. The Bounty List

They’re going to be here for weeks. Ribs take six, minimum to heal – Jigen knows from personal experience – and the knocks Lupin took by all rights should have put him in hospital. Not that he would have gone. Stubborn bastard.

So, they wait. Lupin is fine – he’s got books to entertain him and he rings Fujiko every few days just to annoy her. It’s Jigen who is going to go house crazy first and he knows it.

To make matters worse he has received news – and not the good kind. The letters sit heavy in his pocket, making him feel more cooped up that he has in months.

He strips his weapons. All of them. Cleans them until he can see his reflection. He replaces the bitter out-of-date coffee with slightly better instant garbage. No point in splashing out for the good stuff -he won’t be back here for months after they leave.

When he sits down with his rifle for the third time in as many days – Lupin calls him out on it.

“You’re going to wear that thing down to nothing,” He’s looking at him with an odd expression, “Why don’t you go out for bit? You don’t need to babysit me. I remember how to breathe.”

That’s not the problem though. He drops the magazine out of the rifle. Checks the contact points. The scribbled letters still burning a hole in his pocket, letting him know that he definitely can’t ‘just go outside.’ Not if he has a vested interest in continuing to breathe.

He pulls the barrel off completely. He didn’t polish the stock yesterday and it will give him something to do with his hands. The pungent smell of linseed oil assaults his nose as he starts to polish.

“Are you even listening to me?” Lupin waves a hand dangerously close to his nose to get his attention.

“Nope.”

He inspects the side he’s just been rubbing. As expected, the wood has taken on the oil wonderfully. Jigen feels a sliver of satisfaction as he inspects his work.

“Maybe you should.”

“Hmmm?”

“Listen to me.”

Jigen looks up at the thief. The man wears his emotions all over his face when he’s not actively schooling his expression. The petulant look he’s receiving reminds him of a small child.

“Nah.”

Lupin bristles. He doesn’t like being told no.

“I’m not blind Jigen. I can see you’re bored as hell. I’m not gonna die – go and do something!”

Jigen turns the stock over to start on the other side. He laments only giving Lupin one narcotic painkiller earlier this morning.

“Can’t.”

“Why -ow” Lupin tries to lean forward, and makes a face as his body betrays him, “Why not?”

Truth be told – Jigen was hoping to avoid this conversation. Nothing worse for a working relationship than an active bounty on half of the partnerships head. In the ideal world, Lupin would never have been injured enough to pull them off the court – and they would never have been grounded in the first place – right in the firing line of the mob bounties.

“I’m on the list,” he grumbles, more to himself than Lupin.

“The – ooohh,” Lupins face lights up in recognition, then darkens, “How much?”

“Enough to make a few friends reconsider their positions.”

Lupin thinks on this for a moment. Jigen directs his attention back to his linseed oil. If he wasn’t tied down with an injured thief this would be easier – for both of them. Jigen could be halfway across Mexico ready to lay low for a while, and Lupin could be – well, wherever Lupin goes to lie low. Probably some swanky estate in France that belonged to his grandfather or his grandfathers’ grandfather.

“Stop thinking so hard – it looks like it hurts,” Lupin says blithely from the couch. He’s not taking this as seriously as Jigen would like.

Jigen glares at him from the floor, “First of all – fuck you.”

“Noted”

“Second of all – we should split up. It’ll be safer.”

Lupin shakes his head at that, “I don’t think so. I think we’re safer if we stick together.”

Jigen doesn’t agree, “You’re a pretty good sitting target at the moment – and these guys aren’t known for being nice.”

“Are you that worried about it?”

Jigen fishes for the letters. Hands them over in their roughly opened envelopes. Lupin scans them, his brow furrowing more with every shuffle of the pages.

“Let’s leave then.”

“What?”

Lupin throws the letters back on the table, “You heard me, let’s leave. We’ll go to…”

He leans forward with a grimace and rummages through the papers spread over the coffee table. He finds a map and flattens it, pushing Jigen’s scope off the table into his lap.

“Have you got a coin?”

Jigen feels in his pocket and pulls out a quarter. Lupin holds his hand out. It makes a solid thud as it hits the table.

“Finland, I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a cabin there somewhere!”

He immediately starts to gather his books together and the whole scenario just gives Jigen an odd feeling. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s literally uprooted himself to help someone else – and Lupin doesn’t even know him that well. The few months barely count as far as he’s concerned. Lupin grins at him and he feels it worming its way under his skin.

“Come on!”

It was bizarre – having a colleague this committed. Not for the first time in the last few months Jigen wonder’s if he’s made the right decision to sign the contract offered by the thief. Lupin seems to take the whole concept of work partner and tries to actively throw it out of the window under the guise of ‘team bonding’.

It throws him off balance. Feeling safe has never really been something he equated with work. He has a dangerous job and works for dangerous people. He’s been feeling a little less like he has to sleep with a loaded gun under his pillow in the few months he’s been working with Lupin though. He might be going soft. Or he might have seriously misjudged. He isn’t sure which was worse.

Misjudgement brought his train of thought to their other two colleagues – which in turn crashed it to a complete halt as he remembered something very important.

“Lupin, we can’t leave the country.”

“Why?” the thief yells from the kitchen.

“The ICPO is screening the airports. That inspector – the Japanese one – Zenigata? He’s still looking for you now, as well as Fujiko.”

Lupin sidles back through the door, “He sure is a stubborn old man,” he rubs his chin, “That’s okay, we can work around that.”

“We can work around the ICPO?”

“Mmmm,” he replies, deep in thought, “Yeah, I’ll see if I can call in a favour.”

Off balance. And not in a good way. Jigen starts to put his rifle back together, opting to ignore the flattery he feels, that Lupin is pulling out all stops. He pushes those warm emotions back into their tiny box and shuts it with a click as he replaces the magazine in the rifle.

Nothing good ever came from getting too comfortable. Someone was bound to end up dead.

* * *

As if by a convenient miracle, the efforts of the ICPO are suddenly called away to the northern border for a string of high-end robberies (huge metal safes are being sliced open like butter), leaving the coast clear for Lupin and Jigen to make a dash for the continent.

Lupin still insists on going undercover for their flight just in case – so despite arguing against it, Jigen finds himself on the wrong end of a makeup brush. The man likes his disguises. It helps that he’s very good at them. Some powder and a fake nose; and he’s a convincing elderly man when he stoops low enough. 

Lupin adjusts his own fake beard and puts on a wavering voice. Jigen looks in the window at their reflections – they make a right pair.

Lupin flirts with every flight attendant that comes their way. Jigen apologises to each one soon after the fact.

_“So sorry – he’s going a bit senile these days…”_

_“Don’t listen to him – he’s the senile one. Got that, Alzheimer’s!”_

By the time they make it to Helsinki the annoyingly warm feeling in Jigen’s gut has increased tenfold. One rental car later and they’re pulling up outside the swankiest looking holiday cabin Jigen has seen in his entire life.

“My uncle Alfred left me this one. He was funny old man – never married – unless you count to his money,” Lupin explains as he cracks open the windows.

The afternoon sun beams through the windows, lighting up the newly disturbed dust particles. Jigen has never considered himself particularly poetic. He’s always been straight down the line – blunt to point of rudeness in some cases.

Yet here he is, in the middle of Scandinavia – feeling just as cooped up as he did in America – all because of some lousy dust particles and the way they happened to frame his work colleagues face like he was in a renaissance painting.

He clears his throat and escapes to the next room under the pretence of checking them all over. What he really needs is a break. They’ve had too much time cooped up together and it’s turning his brain inside out. Nothing good ever came from getting too comfortable with your employer.

The whole scenario has unearthed an itch Jigen hasn’t felt in years.

It only takes a little under an hour to air out the house (it feels wrong to call such a high end building a cabin) completely. Lupin collapses with a book he found in the living room, ribs apparently voicing their complaints with the increased movement of the cleaning.

“Go and do something now, don’t stay here on my account,” Lupin says airily from his newly claimed position on the sofa, “Go and, I don’t know – have a drink, gamble, get laid – whatever you want to do.”

Jigen thinks it over for all of two, maybe three seconds. He grabs his hat and a spare box of matches.

“I’ll see you later.”

* * *

He’d seen a bar on the way in. Two bars, to be precise. One loud vibrant one, that looked like it had seen most of the locals at some point in the last 48 hours – and another that looked like it might be more to his particular tastes.

He’s pleasantly surprised to find a poker game starting when he enters the second bar. Coincidence, Luck, Divine Providence. He doesn’t care, but it suits him just fine. He finds a seat tucked into a corner, takes a hand of cards, and practices what he does best – people watching.

Once he handily separates a few of the patrons from their larger bank notes, he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed from both the good scotch and the winnings. He surveys the table, he’s pretty sure the man across from him has been making eyes at him throughout the last hand. He’s out of practice for sure, but he’d like to think he can still tell when someone is interested.

His suspicions are confirmed when the man joins him at the bar and sits a bit too close to just be completely friendly. Jigen gets a good look at him as he chats to the barman. He’s good looking, muscular, with strong facial features that remind Jigen of someone but he just can’t put his finger on who.

Evidently finished with the barman, the man turns to Jigen and says something that he doesn’t quite catch – the hand over his wrist gives him the general idea though. He thinks back to the phrases Lupin was repeating over and over on the plane. He stumbles through ‘ _En puhu hyvin suomea_ ’ with minimal errors. The man smiles and leans forward into Jigen’s personal space.

“That’s fine,” he says into Jigen’s ear – so close he can feel the ghost of lips against his cheek.

Is it fine? He considers the man again; his blonde hair sits just above his shoulders and frames his face nicely. Once upon a time, he probably wouldn’t have been Jigen’s type – but it’s been so long – he’s not sure he’s even got a type anymore.

Is it fine? He’s good looking, and he’s interested. Jigen turns his wrist over, the long-dormant itch making itself known more loudly with every passing second.

“Are you interested?” the man’s fingers are beating a tattoo against the inside of Jigen’s wrist.

Jigen stops them by covering them with his hand, “Yes. Yes I am.”

* * *

Jigen returns to the house in the early hours of the morning. More relaxed than he has been in months. There’s a second car outside the building as he gets closer. A quick peek through the window confirms the presence of Fujiko.

Even she can’t put a dampener on his good mood tonight. He gives the door a quick rap with his knuckles as he enters. Lupin gives him a wave, even Fujiko sends him a tired smile. It’s all good - until he sees the other person.

It’s the third person in the room that sends his stomach through the ground below his feet. The third person, who’s long dark hair sits just above his shoulders and frames his face nicely. The third person, who’s strong facial features break into a small smile when they see the gunman. The third person, who somehow manages to still look muscular underneath clothing that could be better known as 'a large folded sheet.'

He gives them all a quick nod; Lupin, Fujiko – Goemon, and flees to the room he’d claimed earlier as quickly as possible without arousing suspicion. He flops onto the bed and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it without getting up. Inhales deeply, and exhales – watching the smoke crawl its way up to the ceiling.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> En puhu hyvin suomea - translates to (predictably) - I don't speak much Finnish


	9. An Itch to Scratch

Lupin takes just over 5 weeks to heal.

Jigen goes out of his way to see Mikko once more – but the striking similarities to his colleague are more apparent than ever – now that he has recognised them for what they are.

He still leaves their tryst bone-tired and sated, but he finds it difficult to not imagine another face above him, another body. When he leaves the second time – he doesn’t return.

Goemon and Fujiko leave for a job in less than a week and their absence helps Jigen to breathe easier. He busies himself digging up old weaponry that Lupin’s uncle had stashed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The dust in the room makes Lupin sneeze, and sneezing hurts his ribs, so it’s a roundabout way of ensuring that Jigen isn’t easily disturbed when he takes time for himself.

The array of weaponry is impressive, even for a rich man with money to burn. Jigen rummages past sub-machine guns that look like they haven’t been used since the cold war – steps over what looks like part of an anti-tank gun.

“The fuck were you into, Uncle Alfred?” he mutters as he moves the weapon gingerly out of the way.

A pair of well-kept pistols distract him for a moment before he finds the almost buried barrel that had piqued his interest in the first place.

It’s a sniper rifle – an old one – albeit in pristine condition. For a moment, he loses himself in admiring the craftsmanship. He’s tempted to ask Lupin if he can keep it. The damn fool would probably say yes. He’s not exactly knocked back anything else the gunman has asked for in their nearly 6-month-long partnership.

It’s _odd,_ and it’s one of the sticking points that Jigen finds frustratingly puzzling about the thief. He knew that he was _odd_ from the start, but things keep cropping up that make Jigen question the man and his methods even further.

He’s _odd_ in the sense that he’s different from the other criminals Jigen has worked with in the past.

He’s _odd_ in the sense that he appears to genuinely care about his associates.

He’s _odd_ in the sense that sometimes, in times like these where they are on forced downtime between jobs – Jigen finds it hard to remember that he’s even a criminal at all.

Their 5-week holiday in the ‘ _cabin_ ’ has only served to amplify the questions. The man is loaded, or his family is anyway. He could probably live comfortably off of bank interest for the rest of his life. So why is he so intent on thieving as a career?

Jigen’s musings are brought to an abrupt halt by a rap of knuckles against the wooden door. He turns, gun still at his shoulder and looks through the scope, magnification turning his vision completely blue. He drops the rifle to his lap and nods to acknowledge the thief in the doorway.

“Find anything interesting?”

Lupin moves into the room, steps carefully around the weapons strewn about the floor before joining Jigen cross-legged on the bed. The mattress dips with the extra weight, sending a snub-nosed revolver clattering to the floor.

“Woops!” he says, but he doesn’t look sorry at all.

He motions for the rifle Jigen’s holding – he hands it over. The thief gives it a cursory glance over before holding it up to sight.

“Wow, that’s really magnified.”

“Yeah,” Jigen pulls out the stand he’d found to go with it and passes it across, “long distance sniper. It'll pack a punch. Large calibre, .308 or 30-06 I think.”

“Hmm,” the thief hands the rifle back, his eyes roaming the room, “what’s that one?”

Jigen leans forward to pick up the weapon. He inspects it briefly before answering.

“Assault rifle – looks like a .223 calibre. Probably has a 20-shot mag lying around here somewhere. Maybe 50-shot if it was from the war.”

Lupin hums beside him, “What’s the big one?”

Jigen scratches his head, “Anti-tank maybe? Whatever it fired, it was huge, that’s for sure.”

“You know a fair bit about guns,” Lupin remarks, lifting up a pistol with one hand, checking it for weight.

“Well,” Jigen places the assault rifle back where he found it, “It’s kinda my thing, y’know.”

When he looks back up Lupin is completely engrossed in the pistol, his face scrunched in concentration as he tries to figure out the action.

“Here,” Jigen pries the gun gently away, and works the action slowly, holding it out so Lupin can see, “This is similar to yours. Semi-automatic, but it uses 9mm rounds instead of .38’s like yours.”

Lupin nods slowly, his eyes following Jigen’s fingers.

“Smaller bullets,” he continues, “but they pack pretty comparable punch. Probably has a bit more of a kickback than your pistol too. The 9mm projectiles actually have three times –“

He trails off, realising he’s getting into fairly technical areas that not everyone appreciates as much as he does. His hand reaches behind his neck automatically, an embarrassed tic he’s never been able to shake completely. It only takes a second for Lupin to look up at him once he stops talking.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Uhh-“

Because people don’t like technical jargon. Because the room is all of a sudden feeling way too hot. Because he’s a gun for hire, not a friend, and this whole scenario (hell, this whole partnership) is feeling a hell of lot too friendly for any precedent Jigen has to compare it too.

“I was enjoying that.”

“Oh”

The thief looks at him like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. Jigen wants to crawl under a rock.

“The 9mm projectiles have what?”

“They’ve uhh – “Jigen rubs the back of his neck absently, “They’ve actually got three times the ammo capacity of the .38’s, but they tend to get overlooked because the .38 is a longer round.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, the specifics of pistol ammunition are a bit of a niche hobby.”

Lupin just hums and manages to successfully drop the magazine out of the pistol. He grins proudly at Jigen, and despite himself – Jigen finds himself smiling back at the man’s childlike enthusiasm.

He hands the gun back to Jigen in two parts, he eyes searching around the room again.

“You like it?”

Jigen slides the magazine back into place with a click, “Guns?”

This room.

This conversation.

This friendliness – this interest in things that aren’t immediately paramount to work.

Lupin nods, “Yeah, guns?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s good.” The man shoots him such a sincere smile that it unnerves him.

Jigen’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Lupin to finish their 6-month contract and to politely dismiss him back to the waiting arms of the mafia. To complete the cycle that he’s gone through again and again with every other employer. The one where they realise after so long that their deadly gun-for-hire comes with PTSD, alcoholism and suicidal tendencies in one ribbon wrapped package.

Lupin obviously hasn’t read the rulebook. He just keeps grinning at him. He leans forward on his elbows, pointing to a half-covered stock underneath the barrel of the anti-tank gun.

“What’s that one?”

* * *

“Let’s do a job to celebrate me getting better!” Lupin announces, the first morning of the sixth week.

Jigen’s barely functioning. His first coffee of the morning hasn’t hit his stomach yet and his fingers are searching for his cigarette packet on autopilot. He doesn’t even hear Lupin’s request until the third time.

Lupin is already making plans. He’s probably been making plans since they arrived in the country – what with all the downtime he’s been having. Jigen’s on his second cigarette when he gets accosted by the ‘much too energetic for this time in the morning’ thief.

“Have you ever jumped onto a moving train Jigen?” he asks, very seriously.

A stunned ‘what?’ is all Jigen can manage.

“Do you want to?”

He’s got a sly grin on his face and Jigen feels like maybe he has less of a choice in this than he originally thought.

* * *

They’re standing on the edge of a bridge and Jigen is regretting every single one of his life’s decisions up until this point. The train isn’t due for another 10 minutes but every second that goes past feels like it takes an hour.

“Why couldn’t we just get on the train at the station like normal people?” Jigen asks, for the umpteenth time since they’ve made their way to bridge.

True to his irritating form, Lupin doesn’t answer, he just gives him a lopsided grin and changes the topic of conversation. He lights up a cigarette and offers the packet to Jigen.

“Why did you become a hitman Jigen?”

Jigen coughs through the cigarette smoke, not expecting the blunt question. When he gets his breathing back under control, he manages an answer, “I’m good at it?”

Lupin turns and spreads his arms wide across the bridge railing, “I know that, but WHY did you do it? Why do you still do it? You’ve been in the game for years; most people are dead or burned out by now.”

Jigen considers for a long moment. It’s a fair point, “I don’t know, just lucky I guess.”

Lupin makes a smoke circle as he exhales. Hums around the smoke as he formulates his next words, “Do you enjoy it?”

That hits Jigen hard in the chest where he doesn’t want it. He almost turns away from the thief, annoyance rippling through him like a wave. It’s only when he looks back at Lupin’s expression – one of genuine concern, and maybe a bit of curiosity that his anger fades down into something more manageable.

“I honestly don’t know.”

Lupin hums quietly, smiling with his eyes and not his mouth. He cocks his head and stubs the cigarette out on the railing, flicking the butt over the side of the bridge.

“You know,” he says, leaning over the railing now, “I had an uncle, another one, who used to tell me – If you do what you enjoy, you’ll never work a day in your life.”

Jigen can hear the train now too – quietly in the distance. He copies Lupin and snuffs out his smoke.

“I don’t think that’s something that only your uncle said Lupin. That’s a pretty common saying.”

Lupin climbs up onto the railing, with feline agility, “Maybe so – that doesn’t make it any less true though.”

He holds out a hand. Jigen ignores it and finds his way up onto the railing as well. The train is getting closer now, he can see the smoke at the edge of his vision. Now that he’s here he’s not entirely sure why he elected to go along with this harebrained scheme.

If they miss the train, they die.

If they stick the landing, they probably die.

Hell, even if they make the train, there’s a large possibility they die.

Jigen can feel his heart smacking against his ribs with every beat. He can feel the adrenaline, the fight or flight, start to kick in around his body. He meets Lupin’s gaze. The thief grins.

“Are you ready to catch a train?”

They jump.

* * *

Jigen reaches up to keep his hat from flying off in the wind as they land. Lupin lands on his feet – crouching down into the motion like a cat. Jigen lands solidly, goes down on one knee before getting his balance.

The wind rips around them both, Lupin’s tie is fluttering over his shoulder, his jacket billowing out behind him. Jigen’s is probably doing the same. The howling of the wind overtakes all other sound. Jigen’s heart is beating in his ears, fingers numb from adrenaline. He helps Lupin pull open the service hatch on the roof of the car they’ve landed on and the thief makes a joyful motion with his hand. Jigen holds him by the ankles as he bends in to retrieve the bag, tucking his hat under his arm.

The thief wriggles back up a few minutes later with the bag in tow. They replace the service hatch and Lupin motions Jigen closer.

“Before,” he has to almost yell to be heard over the wind, “the next – bridge.”

Jigen nods.

With nothing but the sound of his own racing heart in his ears, Jigen jumps after Lupin – off the moving train and onto the grassy hill at the side of the tracks.

When his back hits the ground, and he hears the last whistle of the train disappearing under the tunnel, Jigen almost laughs out loud.

He looks over at Lupin, who’s mirroring his position – flat on his back in the grass. He’s got a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and he looks like he’s just been given all of his birthdays at once.

That’s when it all clicks into place.

Now he's pretty sure he knows why Lupin chooses a life of crime over a life of luxury.

Now he's pretty sure he knows why Lupin insists on the theatrics, on the drama that comes with being chased, even though it makes everything more dangerous than it needs to be.

He wonders if Lupin had realised that this – this was something that he, Jigen, needed. Or if hiring him and keeping him around this long was merely a calculated accident.

He’s surprised out of his internal musings by a hand in his own. Lupin squeezes it tightly, shakes his arm. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Hey Jigen, can I tell you something?”

Jigen turns his head fully to look at the thief. He’s grinning from ear to ear, short hair windswept and covered in grass from the jump.

Anything – he thinks. You could tell me anything right now.

“Yeah,” he says out loud instead.

Lupin’s eyes crinkle with laughter, “That’s the first time I’ve ever jumped onto a train too.”

He starts to laugh, and the very act is contagious. It takes Jigen a moment to process the words – but when he does the shear stupidity of what they’ve just done dawns on him, and then he can’t stop.

With the smell of grass in his nose, Lupin beside him, and his heart beating out the last remnants of adrenaline through his veins he realises something he was never expecting. He would kill for this man beside him – and he wouldn’t even need to be paid for it. The thought should sober him, should make him reconsider his position as an employee, should disturb him, but it doesn’t.

He looks at Lupin, lying in the grass, this employer who’s not his employer – but his friend, and he’s never felt more alive.


	10. Too Many Letters

Fujiko was putting off accepting Lupin’s job offer. Goemon could tell. The letter – no, letters by this point were all piled up on her desk, all asking the same thing.

‘Please come to France.’

She’d snapped at him when he’d asked why she was avoiding it – so he hadn’t asked again. Until this evening at least, when he had collected the mail and no less than four separate letters had arrived – all sent on the same day.

This was getting ridiculous.

He gives the door only the most cursory of taps before walking in – the undercurrent of frustration blindsiding his usual courtesies.

“Fujiko, this is getting out of hand.”

She looks up blearily from her desk – a red line on her forehead from where she had rested it against her arm.

“What?”

“This is – “his mind finally catches up to what his eyes have already processed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

Fujiko shakes her head. Rubs her eyes, “It’s fine, what were you saying?”

“There’s too many letters.”

She rolls her eyes then, holds out a hand for the papers in his own. From afar, she looks as put together as usual, but up close; Goemon can clearly see the bloodshot eyes, the cracks in her makeup, and the way her shoulders slump when she looks at Lupin’s distinctive script.

Something is not right.

He should have noticed sooner.

“I can deal with it, if you like?”

She rubs at the mark on her forehead absently, “It’s fine, Goemon.”

He looks around the room searching – what has he missed? Windows, open the usual amount. Bookshelves, no messier than they have been at any other point in the last few months. He counts off the visitors in his head – no one out of the ordinary – at least not while he’s been in the house. The desk is piled high with books and papers. He recognises the pile of job offers, there’s a separate pile for Lupin, and a third stack of personal mail, mostly from Japan judging by the script. The liquor cabinet doesn’t appear to be any less full than the last time he looked closely at it. An open cigarette packet indicates the reason for the nearly overflowing ashtray. Yet still he feels as though he is missing something.

A faint grassy aroma (not quite her usual tobacco) puzzles him until his eyes slide over the small settee to the left of the desk. Drug paraphernalia aside (they’ve all got their vices), Goemon notices the distinct dip in the pillows on the settee – as though someone has been laying down on them for –

“You haven’t been sleeping Fujiko.” It’s a statement, not a question, because he is confident in his deductions, “Why?”

She shoots him an attempt at a coy smile. Now he knows what he’s looking for he can see the lines of bone deep fatigue on her face. He huffs out a breath as she tries to bluff him.

“I’ve been sleeping,”

“The settee doesn’t count.”

“I- “

“How long?” he interrupts. He still feels like he’s missing something glaringly obvious.

“A few – “a yawn escapes her before she can stop it, “A few days I suppose.”

She stands up, wobbles briefly before steadying herself against her desk. Goemon watches carefully, ready to move in an instant if she looks off balance.

They’ve not had an active job for a few weeks, so she’s not stressing about schematics. Aside from Lupin’s increasing attempts to contact them, there’s been no unusual mail, no threats. Something is bothering her that isn’t related to work, which means – Goemon shudders internally – emotions.

Emotions are not his strong suit. He sifts through past experiences for something to help him, and comes up empty. The inability to do _anything_ gnaws at his insides. He is not accustomed to this feeling of helplessness.

So, he attacks the problem the way he attacks most things – and hopes Fujiko understands that he is trying to help in the only way he knows how.

“Do you need me to kill someone?”

He is almost offended by the high giggle that escapes her. He would have been had he not caught the watery smile that accompanied it.

“Oh Goemon,” she moves around the desk so she is on the same side as he is, one hand keeping her steady.

“What? I am serious.”

“I know,” she says, and then she’s getting closer – and he can clearly make out the now faded red mark on her forehead – he could reach out and wipe away the tear on her cheek that has managed to escape. And now he’s confused, because she is smiling at him, but also crying, and why is that something that people do? Before he knows it, he finds himself on the receiving end of a tight, but kind of damp hug.

“Don’t ever change,” Fujiko says into his chest.

“I- “he’s not sure where to put his hands. Her hips feel too intimate, around her shoulders feels awkwardly high for the way they’re standing. He settles for placing them in the small of her back. It must be right because she tightens her arms around him. He gives her a small pat before squeezing her gently, “I do not intend to change.”

He racks his brain for what to do next. He thinks of Jigen – before remembering that he has never seen the man go out of his way to comfort anyone in the entire time he’s known him; unless you count buying Lupin a packet of cigarettes and a coffee, and throwing them at him, but somehow Goemon thinks that isn’t going to cut it in this scenario.

Thinking of Lupin’s style of comfort makes him blush. He certainly doesn’t have any of the confidence or expertise required to re-enact anything he’s seen the thief do while ‘comforting’ women (or men, a vivid recollection rudely reminds him). Lupin comforts lavishly, and Goemon is not a lavish person by any stretch of the imagination.

In a stroke of luck, he doesn’t have to think anymore. Fujiko releases her grip on his waist. She leans up on her toes and presses a brief deliberate kiss to his cheek. He feels the blood rush to his face in seconds.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Without thinking too much, he leans down and touches his own lips to the skin at the corner of her mouth, the same way she did to him so many weeks ago across the globe.

Her cheeks are a dusty pink when he leans back. He doesn’t get very far because her arms leave his waist and wind themselves around his shoulders instead. She’s studying his face carefully – though what she can actually see when it feels as though it’s the colour of molten lava Goemon is unsure.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her mouth – the way it’s curved up slightly in a small smile as she looks up at him.

“Can I -?”

The words freeze Goemon in place. The right thing to do is to say no. Fujiko is sleep-deprived, possibly unwell, possibly high – he shouldn’t in good conscience take advantage of that. The right thing to do is to make sure she gets to bed and gets a good night of rest.

He tries to centre his mind and emotions like in training. But Fujiko seems to have developed a knack for finding his weaknesses and exposing them. She is not trying to seduce him – he can find nothing but tired sincerity on her features.

_And oh, Goemon is weak._

He gives her cheek a soft kiss – as if avoiding the place he wants to touch will help him retain some small semblance of control over his all too human desires.

_He is weak._

She wets her lips with her tongue as she lifts her head to meet him. The action sends a bolt of heat down his spine.

_So weak._

Noses brush and it’s Fujiko that tilts her head to slant their mouths together like puzzle pieces. It starts as soft pressure, closed mouths, lips touching lips, nothing more. Then she makes a small sigh against his mouth and Goemon can physically see the threads of his resolve unravelling right before his eyes.

_So._

His hands move of their own accord and pull her closer without his permission.

_Damningly._

His eyes fall shut and the rest of his senses are overloaded in an instant. He doesn’t register anything but the points of contact – hands, chests, lips. Her mouth parts under his and when her tongue slides across his bottom lip he hears a low groan – too low for Fujiko’s timbre. Heat boils in his gut when he realises that it came from deep within his own chest.

_Weak._

He can’t. Shouldn’t be doing this. Fujiko is snapping the remaining threads of resolve and common sense with each little movement, each breathy sigh, each press of her body closer to his own traitorous one.

He steels himself to do the right thing, to pull away. He ignores the flare of arousal in his gut as Fujiko tries to chase his mouth upwards, out of her reach.

“You need to sleep,” he says with finality, and it’s a miracle he can speak at all. A miracle his voice doesn’t give away the internal struggle going on inside his chest.

She slides her hands down to his hips. He can feel the lingering warmth from the paths her fingertips take.

“Okay,” she says softly, squeezing his hipbones through fabric.

“In a bed,” he clarifies, because in this room, right at this moment, it feels like something that needs to be clarified. She gives him a small smile – thankfully there are no tears this time.

She lets him manoeuvre her down the hallway to her bedroom. He opens the door, and she takes his face in both of her hands – as though she is trying calm a skittish animal.

Then again, he supposes – based on precedent, that’s exactly what he is.

“You won’t come in, will you?” she asks with a disappointed voice, but its not a question he needs to answer. She already knows.

His head gets pulled down gently and she presses a long kiss to his mouth. When she rocks down off of her tiptoes he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to give her the wrong idea. Doesn’t want to give her the right idea.

“Don’t run away,” she says, voice still low and soft, and as though he actually were a frightened skittish animal, the calm, reassuring tone works – he exhales a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, feels the tension start to bleed out of him.

“I won’t,” he says, and he means it.

He doesn’t tell her that he couldn’t run away now even if he tried. That he hasn’t been able to for months. That kiss, or no kiss, his sword and his skills are hers, and have been for some time now.

Surely, she knows.

He bends, and without any forethought kisses her forehead quickly

He continues to bend at the hips in a brief bow.

“Goodnight Fujiko.”

Surely, she must know.

* * *

Goemon pads silently back down the hall towards the office, now no longer distracted. The room is as they left it – the smell of Fujiko’s perfume still lingering when he opens the door.

He’s got a gut feeling that needs to be confirmed. He places Zantetsuken beside him against the desk and sits in Fujiko’s chair – scanning the areas in front of him.

His gaze is drawn to an opened envelope near the stack of personal mail. The same kanji lines the paper inside, as well as the pages left haphazardly underneath. These particular letters have followed them – he recalls Fujiko burning one in her apartment when they were in Japan. They had started arriving the second week he was in America, and now, they were here yet again, finding their way to them in the middle of Europe.

He skims the top letter, and he’s almost certain that this is catalyst. It’s probably been building for months and in his ignorance he’s never noticed.

_‘…owing a substantial debt to the family…return forthwith, or you hereby forfeit your right to any further assistance…’_

The other letters are all much in the same line. Debt collection. It is the signatures that trouble Goemon more than the content though.

_‘signed,_

_Father’_

The topic of families, past or present is not one they broach very often – and when they do it is only in passing.

Goemon lets out a long sigh. Judging by the half-written replies, it’s been eating away at Fujiko to the point she has reached tonight.

He flicks through the current job offers from the next mail pile. Fraud, money laundering – a few offers that look more like date invitations than legitimate employment opportunities. It is clear to Goemon now, that Fujiko needs a distraction, something to take her mind off of the heavy letters from Japan.

She is not going to be pleased with his decision – initially at least.

It’s probably going to give him a headache – taking her willingly into the waiting arms of a man whose ultimate ulterior motive is to woo her.

It needs to be done though. So, do it, he will.

He picks up the phone, punches in the number and tries to tell himself that despite the headaches, this will all be worth it in the end.

The man’s voice on the other end of the line brightens considerably when he realises who it is. Goemon has to cut him off before he gets stuck listening to an hour-long rendition of how Jigen apparently got them both kicked out of the Louvre.

“Lupin. Am I correct in guessing that you still have a job opening available?”


	11. The 4:11 to Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we stand for COMMUNICATION!

Fujiko is annoyed, as Goemon expects. A full twelve hours of sleep later, she is recharged and ready to wreak havoc. Goemon almost regrets calling Lupin. Almost.

“I didn’t want to encourage him,” she moans over her coffee.

Goemon doesn’t bother correcting her regarding the fact that _he_ is the one who called Lupin. Then, he considers – it may not make a difference. Lupin seems to view Goemon and Fujiko as a single cohesive unit rather than separate people these days.

“- and Jigen is just going to be an asshole the _entire_ time.”

“No, he- “Goemon pauses for a second, “No, you’re probably correct about that.”

As far as he knows, the hitman still hasn’t forgiven Fujiko for her previous embezzlement. He seems like the type to hold a grudge.

Still, Goemon feels justified in his decision, even if Fujiko insists on reminding that she thinks it’s a terrible idea – right up until they board the train. She huffs, folds her arms, and looks pointedly out of the window when they take their seats. It’s going to be a long four hours.

At the very least, there are only a few fellow commuters on the early train with them – so he can close his eyes, and rest his mind, maybe even catch an hour or two of sleep uninterrupted. He barely notices when the train starts to move – and when he opens his eyes some time later, they are obviously well out of Zurich.

His hope of getting any more sleep is ruined when he see’s Fujiko move in his peripheral vision. Apparently deciding she is no longer annoyed with his presence, she lifts the arms of the chairs between them, and then manoeuvres his own arm around her shoulders so she can lean against him like a pillow. Goemon sighs, he doubts he will ever understand what goes on in Fujiko’s mind.

“I thought you were mad at me?”

“I am.”

“Right,” Goemon looks over her head, out the window. Trees are flashing past in a blur of green. Fujiko’s fingers tap against his thigh to a rhythm only she can hear. He gives her a quizzical look, but she doesn’t appear to realise what she’s doing.

She takes a breath, opens her mouth, and then closes it again quickly. Goemon waits.

“Is this your way of saying you want to get rid of me?”

“What?” Goemon thinks back across the last week for he could have possibly given the impression that –

“Kissing me – “Goemon’s cheeks feel hot at the memory, “-and then immediately dragging me off to France to the company of the worlds _horniest_ thief.”

When she puts it like that, it does seem rather coincidental.

He back peddles, this was not at all what he had planned, “No, that’s not what I – “

“It looks suspicious Goemon, “a sly grin spreads across her face and he realises he’s being teased. He shuts his mouth, embarrassed, before he says something he’s going to regret.

“You do want me?”

Her voice is coy and innocent – her face says otherwise. Goemon clears his throat carefully. This was not a conversation he had envisioned having. Certainly not while he was essentially being held captive in a confined space. Judging by her expression he wasn’t going to be able to meditate his way out either – most unfortunate.

He struggles internally with the desire to be honest and the desire to delay this conversation for as long as humanly possible. His desire to be honest wins out by a fractional margin.

“That is – an astute observation.”

Fujiko lets out a small sigh, he can feel the movement in his side, “Would it hurt you so much to just say yes?”

Yes. Because even admitting to himself that he desires a person as much as he desires Fujiko is a weakness. Because he has trained for years to contain this particular weakness as a sign of his own strength, his own prowess and dedication, and to feel part of his life’s work being brought down around his ears is a foreboding omen of just how easy it is to fail. Because he worries constantly that if he fails in this task – then it will only be a matter of time before he fails in another – and another –

He feels warm lips touch the underside of jaw for a brief moment. Fujiko is studying him with an unusual expression.

“Could you try to stay out of your head for a moment?”

He nods, not quite trusting his words to come out in anything but a garbled mess.

“You desire me – in a romantic capacity?”

He nods again – feeling a lick of shame at the admission. She squeezes his knee encouragingly.

“I desire you too – in a romantic capacity.”

Goemon swallows thickly. Logically he knows this already – as far as he is aware people don’t just kiss for no reason. He should feel pleased at the open admission – should feel good about the faint blush spreading across Fujiko’s face. She clears her throat and continues.

“And now we are on a train to France – to a man, as I may have mentioned before, makes no secret about his desire for me. A man who, given the right circumstances, I would allow to act on those desires – “

Something low flares up inside Goemon’s gut. He recognises it as jealousy. It licks up his spine, berating him for his short-sightedness.

“-Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He _was_ sure. When he made the call, he was sure. Now, he is not so certain. Once again, in his ignorance he has neglected to realise important details. He has neglected to realise that although Fujiko makes light of Lupin’s lavish attentions, she might actually enjoy them. The thought forms a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Talk to me Goemon.”

The use of his name spurs him back to the conversation at hand.

“I am,” he begins, “I was – I am not sure.”

“Are you jealous?”

She says it so matter-of-factly, so businesslike. It makes it easier to latch onto the idea as a hypothetical and admit –

“Yes, I think I am.”

Fujiko’s mouth curves up into a smile, like he’s just done something a whole lot more impressive than admit he has emotions.

“Have you even been in a relationship before?”

“I was engaged to be married,” he admits without thinking, “Years ago.”

“Me too,” she taps his knee absently, “Any others though? Women?”

She gives him a coy smile from under her eyelashes, “Men?”

He splutters. Surely, he is not that easy to -.

She giggles, and he realises that he walked right into her trap; answered her unasked question without even suspecting it. He glares at her. Her stab in the dark proven correct, she taps his knee again, “Well?”

“A few,” he acquiesces, purposefully leaving gender out of the equation, “Never for very long, and not for a long time.”

Fujiko hums and nods, mussing her hair against his shoulder.

“Before we get to France, I need to make it clear.”

The joking tone is gone now, and the business tone is back. Goemon readies himself for the inevitable let down. Wonders if he can safely cut a hole in the roof of a moving train in order to escape.

“I am not opposed – in fact, I would _like_ to pursue a romantic relationship with you, alongside our working partnership – if you are amenable.”

Goemon waits for the ‘ _but_ ’.

“But – “there it is, “I am not a monogamous person.”

“Oh,” the blunt admission throws him, “I don’t know – what does that mean?”

“It means,” Fujiko speaks slowly, as though she’s trying to pick the right words. She hums and rubs her chin absently.

She begins again, “It means, that I can be your partner, your _only_ partner if that’s the way you like to do things – but you may not be my only partner.”

“I -see.” And he does to a certain extent, even if he feels odd about it. He is going to need time – and space, to wrap his head around these new facts, these new feelings, these new potentials. More than anything he wishes for the solitude of the dojo – where he can contemplate all of these new angles in great detail.

“I value you greatly Goemon. I do not wish to hurt you, or drive you away.”

She pauses and peers up at him, obviously concerned she’s lost him to his own head again. He nods quickly so she knows he’s listening.

“So,” she continues, “if you wish to – take some time and think things over. I will be here regardless of the outcome.”

“If I decide yes -?” he starts hesitantly.

Fujiko raises an eyebrow, “If you decide that you also wish to pursue something, then we can sit down and discuss expectations, and boundaries.”

It’s Goemon’s turn to hum now, “And if I decide no?”

He doesn’t miss the brief flash of dejection cross her face at that suggestion. That, if nothing else, confirms for him that she is being genuine.

“Then we continue as we are – with professional boundaries in place.”

It’s a lot to take in. His arm around her shoulders feel all of a sudden awkward and out of place, even though she was the one who placed it there.

“Are you okay?” she sounds concerned, even if she tries to play it off.

He taps her shoulder, and she smiles.

“Yes – it is just a lot to think about.”

“It is,” she agrees readily.

She makes no move to remove his arm from her shoulders, and doesn’t seem perturbed when he squeezes her shoulder and leaves it there. She shifts her body in her seat, and one of her arms snakes around his waist. It should have felt uncomfortable in the small space, but it didn’t. At least, not yet.

Goemon closes his eyes and tiredness overwhelms him. Fujiko may have slept well last night, but he did not. He doubted he was going to in the near future either – given the current circumstances.

Fujiko leans heavily into him. It feels – nice – to have her solid warmth tucked into his side like she belonged there. He would enjoy this while it was just the two of them. Before long they will be in France.

* * *

France was not a total mistake.

The other two criminals were exactly as they had left them in Finland. Lupin – fully recovered now – was exuberant about the extra company to the point of ridiculousness. Jigen was, well, Jigen. He spoke mostly in monosyllables to Goemon – and maybe said three words total to Fujiko, as they had expected. Fujiko, for once, was not going out of her way to antagonise the man further, a small mercy Goemon is thankful for.

Goemon expects an initial surge of dislike for the thief – with his new revelations regarding his feelings and emotions – but to his surprise he finds nothing. Not even when Lupin announces that they won’t be starting the heist until he’s taken Fujiko to _all_ of the sights around Paris, because, ‘ _YOU won’t get us kicked out of museums will you Fujiko?_

Goemon waits for the spike of jealousy to arrive when they leave arm in arm, but it doesn’t come. He waits for unease to wind its way up his spine when he watches them walk back down the street – pressed close together, but it doesn’t even rear its head. He waits for the angry heat to boil in his gut as he listens to Lupin try and sweet talk Fujiko into his bed, pretending as though the other two aren’t also in the room, but his emotions stay blissfully silent except for the undercurrent of desire he feels for Fujiko herself.

Goemon spends a lot of those first few days in deep contemplation. He has a lot to consider, options to weigh up, feelings and emotions to dissect. If he were anywhere else, he would have fled for the hills by now to find someplace isolated enough that he would not be disturbed. Alas, he has to make do with the spare bedroom.

He concludes that perhaps the situation is not as dire as he originally thought. There were of course, many past shoguns who had multiple wives and concubines, so the idea of someone having multiple romantic partners was not an inherently foreign one to him. He had just never really considered the idea in relation to himself. It made sense from a practical standpoint as well – being tied to a singular person as a career criminal made you awfully easy to blackmail.

Emotional dissection was always unpleasant – however, once he managed to separate that his initial jealousy at Fujiko’s suggestion cam from his own insecurities rather than anything else, it was almost easy to pull apart the rest of the emotional threads, spread them bare in front of his minds eye for assessment.

His desire for her is easy to find – he has known of its existence for months, it sits at the top of the pile, waiting patiently to be acknowledged. Close beside it is the thin but deceptively strong thread that he knows encompasses his dedication to her as a friend, one that has been built to last, even if the others crumble and fade to dust. He sifts through them all one by one – the action itself is cathartic and calming. He finds anger, and frustration (at her actions and at his own), he finds remorse, he finds the humiliation he felt at realising his weaknesses and shortcomings, he finds the hesitant eagerness that filled him in those brief hours after their conversation on the train.

Perhaps the most surprising realisation of all though, is one that doesn’t actually have anything to do with Fujiko herself. He can’t pinpoint the exact time he stopped referring to Lupin as ‘the clown’ in his internal thoughts – he can’t identify a timeframe for when he stopped considering him merely a transient colleague and started to deem him a more permanent fixture in his professional circle. There was a point, and try as he might, he can’t find a date, where he stopped actively disliking the flamboyant French thief and starting considering him almost a ‘friend?’

* * *

Contemplation aside – as days turn into a full week, Lupin’s incessant flirting with Fujiko is quickly becoming unbearable to be around. He’s not even subtle about it. Goemon has to wonder if Jigen really deals with this on a daily basis. How hasn’t he killed the man yet if he does this to every good-looking woman or man he comes across? Surely it would get infuriating.

He asks Fujiko as much one evening, when the other two have left to retrieve dinner from a nearby café. She raises an eyebrow and bursts into laughter, leaving him very confused.

“What?”

He’s less than impressed when it takes her a good few minutes to get her laughter under control.

“For a samurai, you can be incredibly unobservant you know,” she says with a wink.

He huffs, offended now, “Just say what you mean, cease talking in circles.”

She giggles again, “ _Look_ at them. Really _look_ at them.”

* * *

So Goemon does. Being told he is unobservant irks him, so he increases his efforts tenfold. It’s not obvious. In fact, if Goemon hadn’t been going out of his way to observe – he doesn’t think he would have connected the dots at all.

He wouldn’t have connected Jigen leaving the room to smoke, consistently with the start of Lupin’s flirtations with Fujiko, as though he can’t stand to be in the same room as them.

Now that he’s looking, he no longer misses the way Jigen angles his body towards Lupin when they smoke on the balcony together – the way he leans down to light the thief’s cigarette with his own more often than not, even when he has a box of matches in his hand.

He no longer misses the way he absently squeezes Lupin’s shoulder when he hands him coffee over the back of the sofa when they’re pouring over building schematics. He doesn’t miss the way Lupin leans back unconsciously into the touch.

He no longer misses the way Jigen’s fingers tense around his scotch glass when Lupin pats his lap for Fujiko to sit on. The way his shoulders tense up and the way his jaw clenches in place – even though the rest of him appears calm, collected, bored.

He doesn’t miss that when Jigen thinks no one is looking, his eyes follow the thief. When he’s not reading or engrossed in a crossword, Goemon can follow his gaze to their mutual colleague, his carefully tailored neutral expression giving nothing away.

He doesn’t miss, that while Jigen doesn’t talk much – he does talk to Lupin when he thinks the others aren’t around. Goemon hears Lupin’s voice through the closed living room door one night, and wonders who he’s speaking to because Fujiko has already gone to bed – until he hears a deep low chuckle joining Lupin’s distinctive melodic laugh.

* * *

“Jigen wants Lupin,” he says to Fujiko, a few days later.

She nods, and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

He waits patiently for Fujiko to get her fit under control. “Do you think he knows?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know – it doesn’t seem like it. But then, he might know, and it might just not work that way for them.”

“Hmm?” he raises an eyebrow in lieu of a spoken question. Fujiko understands.

“Lupin is like me – I don’t know if that’s something Jigen would be okay with – or if he even knows.”

Goemon hums, rolling the idea around in his mind – realising at the same time exactly how little he knows about the gunman.

“We don’t really know Jigen that well do we?” he murmurs, more to himself than to Fujiko.

“No, we don’t.”

Goemon might be imagining it, but he thinks he can hear the tiniest sliver of regret in her voice when she says that.


	12. Soba

At long last – planning seems to take precedent over Lupin’s flirting, and the group begins preparing for their heist in full force.

Jigen whistles lowly as they walk into the atrium of the opera house. He was expecting opulence, but this was beyond anything that he imagined. They need to find high ground for Jigen to set up his rifles – should something go amiss during the heist itself.

Jigen starts up the nearest staircase – the higher they can go, the better. He can feel Goemon’s steady gaze between his shoulder blades. Since Goemon and Fujiko have arrived, he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that he’s being watched. It’s unnerving to say the least.

A short man bounces towards them on the balls of his feet. He says something in rapid-fire French. He repeats himself in English at the blank look on Jigen’s face.

“What can I do for you gentleman? The show doesn’t start for another four hours?”

Goemon catches Jigen’s eye, controlled panic etched onto his features. Jigen thinks quickly, searches for a compelling reason that two armed men would need to be in an opera house in the middle of the day. Goemon’s sword provides a spark of inspiration. He gives the man his widest, most disarming smile.

“Thank you, sir, don’t mind us. We’re just scouting out suitable locations for my friends’ troupe to perform Noh theatre – apparently it’s becoming quite popular in these parts.”

The mans face lights up at the mention of theatre, “Fellow artists! I should have known! I can show you the stages if you like – “

“That would be wonderful,” Jigen interrupts him smoothly, “But we really need to make sure that the theatre we choose has adequate views from up high. We will be video-taping the performances you see…”

“Oh! How delightfully modern of you! As you might be able to see from here,” the man points in the direction of the level above them, “we’ve got many points of entry to a catwalk system used for set changes – perhaps your cameramen could utilise those?”

Jigen rubs his beard, “Perhaps - I would like to take a look at them, if that’s alright with you?”

Eager to please, the man bounces off and returns with a large set of keys. It only takes a little more needling before he’s willing to let Goemon and Jigen loose in the upper levels of the building without a guide – Jigen hears Goemon release a tense breath behind him as the man walks away. 

“That was well executed,” Goemon says when they reach the top of the stairs.

Jigen gives him a half assed grunt in reply. It’s not that he doesn’t like the samurai – he just feels uneasy. For two people that should have a lot in common, Jigen is finding it hard to navigate his way to level ground with the aloof warrior.

“There.” Jigen points to an alcove near the corner, he’ll be able to see the whole hall from here. Goemon regards the area with a critical eye.

“This will be easy to protect; you will have your back to the wall, yes?”

Jigen nods, pacing around the small area. It’s got an excellent view of the orchestra pit, which is where Lupin and Fujiko will be headed as soon as they get the signal.

“Do you wish to look elsewhere or will this suffice?”

Jigen scans the rest of the catwalk – the other corners don’t afford the same kind of view as this one, and the only other areas leave them exposed on more than one side.

“Nah, this one will do. I’d rather not make it harder on us by putting us out in the open.”

Goemon blinks slowly, “As you wish.”

Jigen finishes his scribbled plan and turns back towards the stairs, “Alright, let’s head back. I’ve got what I need.”

“Perhaps we can get some food on the way?”

It’s the first time Jigen thinks Goemon has spoken to him to say something that isn’t either a blunt pleasantry or directly related to a job since he arrived in France.

“Uh sure. What do you want?”

The samurai looks years younger when he raises his eyes to contemplate his answer. Jigen is struck by just _how_ much younger he looks. He looks like a kid – and that twists something uncomfortable inside Jigen’s chest. Especially when he remembers watching him fight with something close to awe when he first got his hands on that sword of his.

“I have a craving for soba, but I am not sure we will find any here, so far from Japan.”

He meets Jigen’s gaze with a hopeful expression and his eyes look so _old_ and _homesick_ to be in such a young face – Jigen commits to finding soba then and there, even if they have to search all of Paris.

“We’ll find some, let’s go.”

* * *

It takes them a long time, but they find a store. It’s been years since Jigen has eaten noodles. It feels awkward to even hold the chopsticks – he’s glad Goemon is so concentrated on his food that he doesn’t notice Jigen’s embarrassed struggle beside him.

Or so he thought.

“I am sure you will not be dishonoured by eating your noodles with a fork in France.”

The bastard sounds like he’s smirking through his mouthful of food.

“Oh, shut up,” Jigen gripes, “it’s been a while.”

The samurai reaches between them. Jigen tenses before he realises, he’s just manoeuvring his fingers around the chopsticks.

“Your finger was just slightly too low. Try now.”

Jigen grumbles a thanks under his breath as eating suddenly becomes easier. Goemon nods and goes back to his noodles with a gusto.

“Thank you,” he says when he’s finished, bowl and chopsticks set neatly in front of him.

“Hmm?” Jigen had zoned out, caught up in his people watching.

“For humouring me. You did not have to, yet you did – so thank you.”

“Oh,” Jigen rubs the back of his neck absently, “S’all right. Sometimes you just gotta do things that remind you of home when you’re away for so long.”

“Indeed.” Goemon rests his gaze upon the chopsticks, he looks like he’s trying to burn a hole into the table with his eyes, “I have found myself wishing to be back in Japan more often than not lately.”

Jigen knows the feeling – not that he really calls anyplace ‘home’ any more – but he has safe houses that feel pretty close. Places he likes to run to, to get away from the pressures of work, and life.

Goemon’s still talking – it seems the noodles have unlocked his ability to speak. It’s jarring to hear the low voice speak more than two syllables at a time. 

“– is Japan home for you as well?”

Jigen knows logically that it’s just because Goemon is assuming – it’s not meant offensively, or as a prying question. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t still sting.

“No.”

Goemon’s mouth turns down at the blunt answer, and Jigen feels like he’s shoved his foot in his mouth. The poor kid was probably just looking for something in common. Good to know that Jigen has maintained his ability to fuck up basic human interaction despite his lack of practice. 

He sighs, “It was once. It hasn’t been home for a long time.”

* * *

Jigen and Goemon take their positions before the show starts. Jigen sets up his rifle, checks his revolver over, and leaf’s through his notebook to his plan from earlier in the week.

Goemon is seated beside him, sword across his lap – expression looking like it’s been chiselled out of granite. Jigen looks through his scope, he can see Lupin and Fujiko below them, dressed to the nines to blend in with the occasion. He can make out the shoulder holster under Lupin’s thin jacket, and hopes that no-one gets close enough to wonder what the shape around his shoulder is – it could blow their cover for them earlier than they want. Goemon is observing their colleagues as well with a critical gaze.

“Fujiko has her gun on the wrong leg,” he says lowly.

Jigen focuses his gaze on her – she’s favouring her left leg, but at least the garter holster under her dress isn’t as obvious as Lupin’s.

“Why?” he asks, only half expecting a reply.

Goemon narrows his eyes as he looks at the two of them. He makes an ‘ah’ sound of understanding, “to compliment the shoulder holster – they have both sides covered.”

Jigen hums, and goes back to watching the crowd. He lets out a grumble before he can stop it when Lupin tries (unsuccessfully) to pull Fujiko in for a kiss. The idiot needs to get his head back in the game. Jigen is not going to be pleased if they fuck this up because Lupin insists on thinking with his dick.

“Does it bother you?” Goemon’s question is blunt, direct, and reeks of a double entendre that makes Jigen’s already bubbling frustration step up a few notches.

“Hm?” Jigen’s interest in idle conversation is losing momentum by the minute.

“Lupin and Fujiko – “the rest of the sentence is left unsaid as half of the aforementioned couple tries to plant another unsuccessful kiss on Fujiko’s cheek.

If only Jigen hadn’t been told that he _wasn’t_ allowed to shoot her. She’s in the perfect position, cross hairs lined up between her shoulder blades.

Goemon waits silently for an answer, small smug smile telling Jigen exactly what he ‘ _thinks_ ’ is going on – whether it be true or not. He feels a small flash of sadistic pleasure as he prepares to burst the samurai’s bubble.

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ with his lips, pleased with himself at the barely concealed confusion on Goemon’s face.

“I had thought otherwise.” It’s barely an admission of defeat – but Jigen takes it.

“Yeah well, you thought wrong.”

Jigen checks his watch – they got here way too early. He could have stayed in the apartment for an extra half an hour at least and still got here with time to spare. Watching the people mill about below with their drinks just serves to make him thirsty, so he leans back to regard his colleague – still sitting ramrod straight, face every bit as impassive with closed eyes as it is with them open.

Jigen’s grandmother used to say ‘when you’re young and in love – you see love everywhere you look”, and Jigen has seen how Goemon looks at Fujiko – and how on the odd occasion how she looks back at him.

With that in mind, that must be why Goemon assumes that Lupin and Jigen are –

He doesn’t look at Lupin like that, does he?

No, he doesn’t. Jigen’s not a randy teenager anymore, he’s on the wrong side of thirty-five for god’s sake. He’d know if he was making cow eyes at anyone, especially his own employer. Not to mention, Lupin would never have let him live it down if he did. Despite his many – many faults, the thief is definitely observant.

Still, with time to kill, and a weakening desire to watch his colleagues wander about brushing shoulders with the rich, Jigen decides that Goemon deserves a taste of his own medicine.

“Does it bother you?”

One eye opens, “I thought the conversation was over.”

Jigen stretches out, “changed my mind. Does it bother you?”

Goemon gazes down to the level below, expression still giving nothing away, “I thought it would.”

Interesting. The unsaid ‘ _it does not_ ’ hangs heavy in the air between them.

“She do this often then?” Jigen nods down towards where Fujiko seems to have finally relented to Lupin’s advances.

Goemon considers the pair for a moment before answering.

“Fujiko has many skills. Too often men are drawn in by her beauty alone and they neglect to notice that she is much more than that. They underestimate her – and ultimately that becomes their downfall.”

This isn’t new information. Jigen’s dealt with conmen and conwomen before – and Fujiko embodies pretty much all of the traits he despises in them.

“Did you?”

Goemon won’t meet Jigen’s gaze, and all of a sudden Jigen really doesn’t want to know what happened to make a samurai blush like that.

Goemon clears his throat, “Not in the way most men do – but in other ways. Thankfully I have never been under the impression that Fujiko is anything less than deadly.”

Jigen hums, “Well I suppose you’ve lasted until now.”

A sharp click echoes around them as Goemon unsheathes his sword briefly before sliding it back into the scabbard with another click.

“I did not forsee our partnership surviving this long at the start.”

“Why’d you stay?” Jigen is genuinely curious, the two make an odd pair, even for work colleagues.

The sword clicks again beside him.

“We work well together,” a pause - another click, “why do you stay with Lupin?”

Jigen opens his mouth to speak then closes it again quickly before he’s too honest. He doesn’t mind the samurai – hell, he likes the kid. But he doesn’t like Fujiko – and them being thick as thieves puts a real dampener on what he feels like he can say in confidence.

He settles on, “It’s a good fit. Change of pace from the mob.”

Goemon nods slowly, seemingly unaware of the internal dilemma, “The two of you work well together. You are,” he pauses, looking for the words, “well-balanced for each other.”

“Uhh, thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

Goemon closes his eyes and Jigen takes that to mean the conversation is definitely over.

He considers the idea of lighting up – but movement in his periphery distracts him. Lupin and Fujiko are on the move. He leans forward to look through his scope. Lupin’s gaze flicks behind him and Jigen sees the problem immediately.

Three men are trailing them, the suits making it difficult to tell if they’re hired muscle or law enforcement. Jigen nudges Goemon with his elbow – feels the samurai shift into high alert beside him.

Lupin and Fujiko disappear behind the door he knows will take them down below the orchestra pit. Their pursuers are obviously aware of what the two are after – they station themselves at the door. Now it is nothing but a waiting game.

Jigen pulls his phone from his pocket and thumbs out a brief succinct message. The next few minutes stretch out like hours. The crowd quiets and the lights dim. He curses quietly at the timing.

He can just make out the bodies at the door even as the lights dim completely, leaving only the stage illuminated. The conductor stands and bows before the crowd to a roar of applause before descending to his position at the front of the pit. A low rumble of percussion rolls out across the room.

Jigen watches the door and prays that Lupin has figured out the same thing he has. The rest of the orchestra joins the percussion and the music swells out loudly. The door opens – just slightly at first, then all the way, crashing into one of the men standing in front of it. He pulls the trigger and the crowd doesn’t even notice the crack of the silenced rifle – it blends in seamlessly with the crash of the drums.

Goemon moves next to him and Jigen hears the tell-tale click of the sword being unsheathed.

“We need to move,” he bites out. Jigen couldn’t agree more. Satisfied that Lupin and Fujiko have made it to the side stage door, he moves to pack his rifle as swiftly as he can.

He hears footsteps, and then a wet sound that he definitely doesn’t want to visualise. More footsteps echo below them. Goemon points towards the upper levels, “Roof.”

Goemon scales the service ladder first. Jigen throws him the bag with his rifle in it before he too starts the climb. A small minute of orientation on the roof later and Jigen has found the exit that Lupin and Fujiko should be coming out of, any moment now.

He sees Fujiko first, Lupin follows soon after, gun drawn. The van they ‘borrowed’ is sitting on the opposite side of the road. Men spill out from the side doors and move to surround the two. He hears Goemon start to move behind and he runs towards the edge of the roof as well. Fujiko makes a dash, and manages to get into the driver’s side. Lupin is still surrounded though.

Maybe he’s getting old and sentimental – but Jigen has been reminded more and more often of his grandparents of late. He can almost hear his grandmothers voice ‘ _trust your gut’_. His grandmother was a wise woman.

Jigen’s gut is telling him something is wrong. Something is going to go wrong. Something has gone wrong.

The van starts with a rumble. Lupin is still staring down the barrels of a dozen or so weapons. When the vehicle starts to move, in the wrong damn direction, Jigen curses himself for not shooting the bitch when he had the chance.

* * *

Goemon watches the van speed down the wrong street and his world crumbles around him. The ice-cold tendrils of betrayal snake down his spine, freezing him from the inside out.

_He has been deceived._

He barely hears Jigen beside him. He’s saying something, and loading his speed loader at the same time.

_By the one person he had trusted to not deceive him._

The crack of Jigen’s unsilenced magnum rockets through his head. He takes a breath, surveys the ground below him, and marks the path he will take in his mind. He cannot dwell on Fujiko while Lupin is in trouble, with only Jigen’s six-shooter to protect him.

He grounds himself, unsheathes his sword. His master always erred on the side of caution when fighting while in a heightened state of emotions, but today Goemon will have to push those lessons by the wayside. He does not have time to centre himself. The men notice Jigen at last and aim their weapons upwards.

Bullets fly and Goemon can sense where each one’s path will take it. These men are fools to think they have a chance to hit the gunman when the samurai is in the way. He bends at the knees and focuses on the faces – the last thing they see will be their weapons melting before their eyes. The flash of their sad pathetic lives in the reflection of Zantetsuken.

Goemon jumps. These men won’t know what hit them. He rarely fights without proper grounding because he risks losing his tenuous control.

And today – right now – Goemon is _furious_.


	13. Aftermath (in two parts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this one - I couldn't continue it without making it a small novel in itself so we get this until I finish editing the next monstrosity

The silence in the apartment is deafening.

The smell of blood still stings Jigen’s sinuses. Goemon has retreated to the bathroom to clean his sword, and probably himself as well. Jigen is steadfastly trying to remove the image of Goemon disembowelling a dozen men at once from his memory.

Lupin hasn’t been game to say a word yet. It’s tough to decide who he’s angrier at – Lupin, for yet again failing to read the signs – or Goemon, for willingly bringing the snake back into the grass in the first place.

Lupin is slumped dejectedly over his arms on the opposite side of the table. Jigen resists the urge to kick him as he pours himself another glass of scotch.

“Jigen,” Lupin’s voice is muffled through his arms.

“If you’re gonna try and defend the bitch, save your breath.”

He rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Lupin makes an unimpressed ‘harrumph’ that he elects to ignore.

“Don’t call her that.”

“I will call her, “Jigen speaks slowly, as though he’s talking to a toddler (because sometimes he _wonders_ ) “whatever the hell I want.”

Lupin raises his head to look at the gunman morosely.

“I know you’re angry – “he starts in what he must think is a pacifying tone.

Unfortunately, Jigen’s patience is already stretched far too thin. He interrupts him, “I’m past angry Lupin. I’m absolutely livid.” He points accusingly at the thief in front of him, “I warned you about this. Multiple times.”

Lupin opens his mouth, but Jigen holds up a hand. He’s not finished.

“Did you listen? Did you use your upstairs brain, for even a second? No. And now look at us.”

Lupin drops his head back into his arms with a groan, “I can’t help it, she just makes me lose my mind.”

“Yeah, she lost your mind, and _my_ money today. And I’m not happy about it.”

“I’ll pay you,” is the muffled reply.

“That’s not the point.” Jigen slams his fist down beside the thief’s face, making him jump, “is this going to happen every damn time she turns up on the scene and flashes her tits at you?”

Lupin narrows his eyes and sniffs disdainfully, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I love her.”

He says it with such direct finality that Jigen snaps.

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

The wooden floor screeches when Jigen pushes his chair back. He almost runs headlong into Goemon, who had chosen that moment to re-appear in the doorway.

“Goemon understands, don’t you Goemon?” Lupin spreads his arms wide, imploringly.

“What?”

“When you love someone and because you love them so much, you’re willing to let them get away with anything…”

Goemon’s expression darkens. He folds his arms, “What Fujiko did today was dishonourable. There was no excuse for such behaviour.”

Lupin’s face falls, but Jigen feels a small surge of pleasure that he’s not the only one angry.

“If you have not further use for me, I will take my leave.”

Jigen hadn’t noticed the satchel slung over his shoulders.

“You’re not going back to her, too are you?” he asks, pointedly ignoring the way Lupin leans forward with interest.

Goemon meets Jigen’s gaze with a level expression. He still smells faintly of blood. Between that and his chiselled expression Jigen is again, forced to remember that this is the same man that was waist deep in entrails not twelve hours earlier. The thought chills him. His voice chills him even more.

“I have – some unfinished business,” his fingers slide across his scabbard absently, “but no. I will be found at my dojo if you require me.”

Lupin slumps back into the chair as the samurai takes his leave. Jigen finishes his expedition to the kitchen for more booze. He’s going to need a hell of a lot more to ensure he doesn’t accidentally kill Lupin in the next six hours.

Lupin’s voice reaches him down the hall, “Jigen?”

“What?” he yells back.

He ambles down the hallway – Lupin hasn’t moved, but he visibly sinks back into the chair when Jigen rounds the corner.

“You’re still here.”

Jigen inspects his cigarette, and gives up on it. He fishes out another and lights it.

“Yeah, I s’pose I am.”

He holds out the packet across the table. Lupin takes one warily.

“You’re not mad?”

Jigen flicks his lighter, holds the flame out.

“Oh, I’m still furious.”

“Not leaving though?”

“No.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and he sincerely looks it.

He’s not getting away that easily though. Jigen holds out a hand. Lupin looks at the outstretched limb, confused.

“Chequebook.” Jigen says around a mouthful of smoke.

“Wha- “

“Get it out. Sign it. This is all your damn fault.”

Lupin grumbles, but does as he is told, “what are you going to do with it?”

Jigen hums, “Stick it on a wall, smoke it,” he takes a drag and exhales a smoke ring, “hell, maybe I’ll buy a helicopter.”

Lupin groans as he signs the bottom of the cheque.

Jigen pockets it, “now let that be a valuable lesson.”

This won’t be the last time this happens. Jigen knows that already. Fujiko Mine doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who will just leave them alone if they ask nicely. And Lupin doesn’t seem to be the type of person who is going to tell her ‘no’ – for anything. The thought annoys him, but his decision unfortunately has already been made – and Jigen makes a point of sticking to his decisions, no matter how poor they might be.

With the cheque safely in his pocket, he reaches for the newspaper and flips through it to the classifieds. He was sure he’d seen an advertisement about an ex-military auction somewhere in the next few weeks.

* * *

It is irritatingly easy to locate Fujiko. She makes no effort to cover her tracks.

“If someone were looking to kill you, they would have an easy time of it,” Goemon says bluntly from the open window.

Fujiko sits up straight from her reclined position on the bed. The hand moving to her thigh stills when she see’s who it is.

“Oh Goemon!” She stands, and reaches his side by the time he’s climbed down from the window sill. She wraps her arms around his waist, “You’re safe – I was so worried.”

“Cease.”

He extricates himself from her embrace. He will not be distracted by her wiles tonight. He is here with a purpose.

“You acted without honour.”

Her face falls slightly, but she schools her expression quickly enough. She leans against him, trying to pull him closer, “It’s a good thing you’ve got enough honour for the both of us then.”

“This is no joke Fujiko,” a strong hand on her shoulder pushes her away to arm’s length, “I thought you were a better woman than that.”

She opens her mouth, but doesn’t reply. He’s hit a nerve. Good. She has hit several of his own on the way over here. He is anxious for this conversation to be over so he can return to Japan. He has much to contemplate – advice to ask of the ancestors – training to complete.

“I am returning to Japan.”

He doesn’t add that she can call him if she needs him. The memory of the deceit is still too raw for that offer.

Satisfied she’s not going to leap at him again, he drops his hand from her shoulder. She catches it on the way down in her own hand.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, and sounds sincere. It is unfortunate that Goemon is not yet ready to forgive.

“You betray people left and right Fujiko, without thought for the consequences.” He untangles his fingers from hers – pulls his hand away. “I will not be betrayed a second time.”

“Goemon, I- “

He holds up a hand. He has already decided that this is a non-negotiable part of the conversation.

“If you try to deceive me again, it will be the last time you do so.”

Colour drains from her face, “I made a mistake.”

“You did.”

She looks down at her feet, at the floor. Shame is written across her beautiful features.

“How long will you be in Japan?”

Goemon considers for a moment, “I don’t know.”

Her gaze drifts upwards. Despite his anger, Goemon still aches to reach out, to touch her and pull her close. All the more reason for him to retreat to the safety of training. He has neglected his studies, and he has sorely paid the price for it.

She takes a deep breath, and juts her chin out.

“I could be ‘ _honourable_ ’ if I tried.”

There’s a shadow of the old twinkle in her eye – the one Goemon hasn’t seen for weeks. He is still angry. He will be angry for some time yet. He wishes he could believe her.

He takes her face in his hands, finally giving in to his desire to reach out, to touch. She blinks at him, but doesn’t move. She closes her eyes when he leans in.

The kiss lasts barely a minute. Her lips are warm under his, and he steels his resolve to pull away before he does something he will regret.

“Prove it,” he murmurs against her mouth – and then he is gone – the cool air of the night greeting him with a chill wind as he drops to the ground from the window.

He tucks his arms into his sleeves, refusing to touch his own lips where the warmth still lingers. He shivers, but it does not bother him. Discomfort is a welcome companion for sorrow, and heartache.

* * *

Jigen suspects he might have actually died and gone to heaven – or someplace similar – as he wanders the large hangar. A bell rings out to signal the start of the bidding, and he makes his way back to the main hall, where Lupin is waiting at a table for him.

He’s got his eye on the sixth item and it’s a beauty. Jigen raises the paddle and Lupin’s jaw could have made a crack at the rate it hits the table.

“That one?” he whispers urgently when he’s recollected his jaw.

Jigen just grins at him, and increases the price again to match his bidding opponent.

“It’s huge!” the thief’s eyes are wide with disbelief, “Where are we going to put it?”

“ _SOLD_ ” the auctioneer bangs his mallet, and moves swiftly onto the next item.

Lupins head hits the table with a thump.

Jigen chuckles, “You should have thought of that before you royally fucked up.”

Jigen was still angry. But a UH-1 Iroquois in pristine condition – that certainly helped to calm the metaphorical flames.

Even Lupin looked begrudgingly impressed when they went to retrieve the aircraft. She was absolutely spotless, and Jigen was pretty sure he was in love.

“Say Lupin,” Jigen grins at his colleague from behind the tail shaft, “You can fuck up as many times as you want if you buy me one of these, every time you do.”

Lupin groans loudly, “Couldn’t you have just asked for booze like a normal person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I have an ongoing head-canon that Jigen collects helicopters (and other aircraft), and leaves them in opportune places


	14. Nothing but Six Syllables

They leave France for the warmth of southern Italy. Partly for the weather – partly because Italy is the only place that Lupin has a large enough estate to park the new helicopter.

It’s nice having a whole building to themselves again – even if Jigen does miss being able to go downstairs and order coffee when he was feeling too lazy to make his own.

Something Goemon had said has been playing on his mind insistently; had been since they left France. With Lupin out of the house on a grocery run, Jigen was free to procrastinate his morning coffee and ruminate on his worries.

‘ _I had thought otherwise_ ’

Six syllables that Jigen couldn’t shake, despite his best efforts.

What did he and Lupin look like for Goemon to ‘think otherwise?’

He was scrutinising his every move – hyper-vigilant to the point of being awkward, yet he could find nothing.

He was comfortable (a feeling he was electing to ignore), if moderately annoyed with the thief most of the time – perhaps Goemon had confused their casual closeness for something else.

His face screws up involuntarily at the mental image of Lupin treating him like one of his ‘conquests’ – truly terrifying.

“Why are you making that face?”

He hadn’t even heard Lupin open the door.

“Bad milk,” he deadpans, though he doubts Lupin will believe him.

Lupin takes the deflection in his stride and busies himself unpacking the groceries. He throws a packet of cigarettes in Jigen’s direction.

“They didn’t have your usual, but I think you’ll like these alright.”

Jigen grunts a thanks, and inspects the packet – a fancy local brand, “I would have survived on your Gitanes, you didn’t have to get a separate packet.”

“I know,” Lupin emerges from the fridge, mouth full of cheese, “But you’ll like these ones though, trust me.”

Jigen rips the plastic and sniffs the box – they’re not bad, he needs more coffee to go with his nicotine hit though.

As if he’s read his mind, Lupin waves his arm towards the hall, “Hall table – I had to drop the coffee.”

Jigen has an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and is about to reach for his coffee when he stops.

There’s only one disposable cup.

Either Lupin drank his already – unlikely, because the man insists on leaving his drinks sit until they’re lukewarm at best – or he specifically went out of his way to get Jigen coffee on the way back from the store.

The more he considers, the more small things, slowly start to accumulate into a tangible form.

He picks up the cup and walks to the chair he has set up outside in the sun. He doesn’t sit, just leans against the warm wall and lights up on autopilot.

Lupin was right, he did like the cigarettes – another puzzle piece slotting into place.

The thief joins him, stomping down the hall. Jigen passes him the lit cigarette when he motions for it without thinking. He almost chokes on his coffee when his brain catches up and registers Lupin’s mouth curled around the butt where his was moments ago. The cigarettes – bought for him – because the thief thought he would like them.

“Earth to Jigen,” Lupin waves a hand in front of his face, and swaps the cigarette for the coffee cup. Jigen lets him. He takes a long sip, “what’s up man? You look like you’re spacing out?

To be fair, the thief is absolutely correct.

Because the lights are on, but Jigen is not home, he is in a dark corner, sifting through information and wondering why he didn’t see any of this sooner.

Because he’s only just realised why Goemon thought they were together.

Because when he thinks about that particular situation as an abstract, he ‘doesn’t mind’ and he’s not really sure that’s a good thing.

Because now that he’s realised, it’s going to be awkward as hell (for him at least).

How do you tell your boss, your friend, _‘hey, it kind of looks like we’re dating, do you want to tone it down a little bit_?’

You leave – his mind supplies. Only Jigen can’t leave, he’s just signed another contract – and even if he hadn’t, he’s enjoyed his work with Lupin in the last six months more than he’s enjoyed anything in the last six years. And like the selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t want to give that up – potential Fujiko betrayals included.

Pain shoots through his fingers and he swears – dropping the cigarette butt to the ground. Lupin is looking at him like he’s grown another head.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Should I take you to a doctor or something?”

“Nah,” Jigen shakes his hand, as if that will help the burned digits, “Just had a shit night’s sleep.”

Lupin seems satisfied enough with the lie. He claps Jigen on the shoulder as he moves past.

“Don’t burn the house down.”

Jigen stomps on the smouldering butt and huffs out a breath. He checks the coffee cup – still half left – and takes a gulp.

He figures none of it is calculated. The casual affection seems too far removed Lupin’s usual romantic MO to considered anything serious. He probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, which is likely for the best. Friends was one thing – but anything further between two people who had to work together as partners was asking for trouble. Just look at Goemon and Fujiko.

He finishes the coffee in another gulp and crushes the paper cup in his hand. Just like he crushes the annoying voice in his head that tells him that he probably wouldn’t mind if the affections _were_ serious – that he kind of even enjoys the closeness of co-existing with the thief.

It’s all very troublesome, and it’s not even ten AM yet.

* * *

Lupin has his eye on a necklace. Jigen has a sneaking suspicion its actually for Fujiko, but she hasn’t bothered them recently – so he doesn’t want to say her name and accidentally summon her.

They need Goemon for the actual swipe. The case is supposedly completely scratch proof – so they need something stronger than the glass knives already in their collection. Lupin phones him, and cajoles him over with promises of pay and excitement.

When Goemon arrives Jigen is both pleased for the barrier between himself and Lupin, and annoyed at the extra human in the already tiny space of their townhouse. When he stumbles out to make his morning coffee, nine times out of ten, there is already a samurai sitting at the table. When he goes outside to smoke in the sun, he hears the small movements that bely Goemon’s presence on the level above him – meditating – or whatever the hell it is he does on a goddamn roof.

He likes the samurai – but he’s just ‘ _everywhere_ ’. And Jigen isn’t comfortable enough with him yet to enjoy that like he does when its just Lupin.

Also, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it – the presence of Goemon is distracting, which is an uncomfortable realisation in and of itself. It’s been months, and Jigen still sometimes catches himself staring at the man a little too long to be considered reasonable. Catches himself thinking back to Finland, when he (a sucker for punishment) went back to the European doppelgänger a second time and it was just as good as the first – if not better.

If he were in any other position at all – he would have made a casual suggestion and left it by now. Hell, he probably still could – it’s not like Goemon works with them _all_ the time, if he were interested it could work out mutually beneficial.

But Jigen has a gut feeling – one he can’t quite pin it down. A feeling that he’s on a slippery slope here, with this group of criminals. It’s started with realising that he cares for Lupin in more ways than just a simple colleague. It’s continued with the self-deduction that he’s willingly staying in a job where he’s going to be double-crossed by a part-time colleague more often than not, and he’s not planning on shooting anyone (mostly).

If he doesn’t keep his wits about him, he’s going to end up ‘ _attached_ ’ and that, is a truly terrifying prospect.

* * *

It’s a long month between when Goemon leaves Fujiko to mull over her actions, and when Lupin contacts him to assist in the next heist. Training has been good for him. He feels renewed, surer of mind and body than he has in months.

Jigen is on edge again, when he arrives in Italy. The signs are hard to miss – although Goemon has to admit it is almost endearing to watch the stoic gunman walk around on eggshells, trying not to offend anyone.

Amusement aside, Jigen is quickly becoming a frustrating puzzle. One that Goemon tries and fails to reach out and understand. He had been so close, before. Before one wrong word had closed the gunman’s lid tightly shut again.

The perceived slight makes Goemon irritated. He and Jigen are the _same_. Anyone with two eyes can see that. By all rights, they should get along like a house on fire, with the amount of similarities they have being men of honour – warriors.

“It’s never that easy though,” Lupin butts in, destroying Goemon’s internal (and what he had thought was a very quiet, external) monologue.

How long had the thief been beside him on the roof, listening in? Goemon opens his mouth to snap at the inconsiderate fool, but then shuts it again, mulling over his words.

“Explain?”

Lupin crosses his legs and leans forward. It’s such a characteristic gesture that for a single moment, Goemon is floored by how much he has missed the thief’s presence during his time away.

The aforementioned thief rubs his chin, pondering, “The two of you are similar on the outside, this is true. A hitman – a samurai. But Jigen is so much more than ‘ _just a hitman_ ’, the same way _you_ are so much more than just a samurai.”

“I- “Goemon stops short, “I had not considered.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of yourself as anything but a warrior,” Lupin sounds exasperated, “I thought Fujiko would have pulled that out of you the first chance she got?”

Goemon’s face flairs with heat at the frank disbelief, “She – she has tried. I am, conditioned. All my life, I have trained as a weapon. Not to simply use weapons – to be a weapon.”

“And you assumed Jigen was the same?”

“His story, from what I have heard, is similar to my own.”

Lupin hums, gaze fixed at a point on the horizon, “He has been around for a long time,” he agrees.

“I am, likely mistaken then. I must apologise.” Lupin waves his stumbled words away with a throwaway motion. “I had assumed that you had acquired him for his superior skills, when he mentioned that he was under contract.”

The thief gives a half-hearted shrug, side-eyeing the samurai with an uncomfortable look, “First of all, I don’t ‘ _acquire_ ’ anyone – and while his skills certainly helped on his resume, that’s not the only reason I asked him to join me.”

“Why then?”

Lupin shoots him a sly grin and wiggles his fingers.

“I’m a thief,” he says, as though that explains everything.

When he realises he’s obviously not going to get a clearer answer than the cryptic statement, Goemon moves on to something else that has puzzled him regarding the gunman.

“I admit I thought the contract meant his position may be temporary also – contracts usually are.”

Lupin shakes his head, and that confuses Goemon more. Contracts were so much harder to upkeep. He and Fujiko had long forgone their own contract in favour of a simple standing arrangement.

“Why do you keep renewing it for such short periods then? Why not change to a more permanent arrangement?”

“Jigen needs it,” Lupin says, unconcerned, “One day he might change his mind. Besides, it’s more of a formality at this point.”

“It is not – binding?” Goemon is unsure of the words.

“He’s not shackled to my hip if that’s what you’re asking,” Lupin suppresses a small chuckle at his own joke, “It’s more of a case of – ‘he needs a contract, so I give him a contract’, because that keeps him around, and keeping Jigen around is in my best interest.”

“You do it to keep him comfortable.”

Lupin nods, eyebrows knitting together, “you know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete asshole.”

Goemon has to work to stop his lip twitching in amusement at the thief’s offended expression, “Of course not, you are merely a dramatic fool.”

Lupin huffs, “Even a fool has one talent, thank you.”

He looks so put out that Goemon chuckles out loud. The look on the thief’s face at the soft noise is priceless.

“He does like you, you know,” Lupin says after a moment, face turning serious once more, “Even if he’s a bit, shit at showing it. Or saying it.”

“I had wondered sometimes,” Goemon admits begrudgingly.

“He just – he doesn’t trust easily. He’s still finding his place.”

“With you?”

Lupin shrugs again, “with me, with you, with Fujiko – “he shudders, “Terrifying.”

Goemon has to agree. The tension between Jigen and Fujiko could strip paint off of walls even when they’re having a good day.

“and what is your place Lupin?”

The sly grin returns, “My place is wherever I need to be.”

The soft hoot of a car horn floats through the night air. Though the sun has almost set now, the air is still warm. Goemon knows that shortly they will hear the front door open, as Jigen makes his way out for an evening cigarette.

“For what it’s worth –“

Lupin, who was moving to stand, stops in his tracks – before resuming his seated position. Goemon feels almost embarrassed admitting, but he presses onwards.

“I observed, for a day or so, before I arrived. Jigen seems more –“ he cocks his head to the side, looking for the right word, “- peaceful, than when we first came across one another.”

Something imperceptible crosses Lupin’s gaze before he answers, “He smiles more now – I think. He never used to smile as much.”

Goemon could ask now. He could kill two birds with one stone. Abate his own gnawing curiosity and put an end to the debate that he and Fujiko have had going for close to a month now, regarding the relationship between the two men.

“What are you? To him?”

Had he not been on the receiving end, Goemon would never have guessed Lupin kept such a piercing look in his arsenal – even if he does only use it for a second. It’s gone as soon as it arrives, leaving his face a blank canvas.

“I’m whatever he needs me to be.”

“Is that what you say to everyone?”

The pleased grin from earlier is back now, as though he’s letting Goemon in on a secret.

“Different people have different needs Goemon. What Jigen needs from me, might be different from he needs from you. The same way that what Fujiko needs from me, might be different to what you need from me.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that for a moment Goemon can see the ghost of Fujiko shining through the thief’s mannerisms.

“And what do I need from you?” he asks, suddenly unsure if he wants to know the answer.

The corner of Lupin’s mouth twitches into a lopsided smirk, and. _Oh_.

Goemon knows that look. It’s impossible to work with Fujiko and _not_ know that look. It’s decidedly less often that it gets directed at him though.

“That,” Lupin’s eyes travel down Goemon’s face to his lips, and back up again, “is for you to figure out and tell me.”

He reaches out a hand to clap Goemon’s shoulder – making the samurai start. And then the moment is over.

All traces of previous expressions gone, Lupin stands and stretches. He places a finger over his lips conspiratorially, and makes his way stealthily to the section of the roof above the front door. He peeks over the edge briefly before he jumps down with a loud, ‘BOO!’

A loud crash and a stream of curse words indicate a kicked chair (at least) and a spot of wounded pride for the smoking gunman. Lupin’s breathless laughter continues long after the cursing stops.

‘ _whatever he needs me to be.’_

The door slams shut behind the two men. Goemon closes his eyes. He has been left with more questions than answers, though he is starting to suspect that will be a common occurrence with the thief.

Meditation should at least bring him a brief reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a slightly longer break between this chapter and the next one. Real life is calling and alas, I must answer the painful call. It is such a shame that university is a necessary evil.  
> In the meantime, feel free to validate my efforts, shit talk my prose, or tell me what you like and where you think this fic is heading.
> 
> A/N: 30 OCT 2019 - updated title and fixed my dyslexic approximation of how many syllables 'I had thought otherwise' actually has


	15. Have you ever heard a samurai giggle?

They snag the necklace in record time, and Lupin nicks some other jewellery for good measure. Though Jigen is loathe to admit Lupin is right – the three of them together work well. Jigen was able to test out a new projectile he’d been working on with Lupin. Goemon sliced through the locks with near perfect precision. They all ended up getting paid. The job really couldn’t have gone better, from start to finish.

Lupin – true to form, suggests a celebratory dinner as soon as they walk through the door. So Jigen once again, finds himself at a bar far too expensive, drinking liquor that’s far, far outside his usual price range. It is nice though, Lupin hasn’t bothered to gather a gaggle of groupies, opting instead to sit between Jigen and Goemon, and provide a running commentary of the locals – making up stories for them with the express intent of making Goemon laugh.

The barman has side-eyed them a few times when Lupin’s gotten too rowdy, but they’re paying well so his desire for money obviously outweighs his desire for a quiet bar. Hours in, Jigen is finding himself less able to care about what the barman thinks – between good food and good liquor he’s pleasantly buzzed.

Lupin on the other hand, is well on the way to drinking himself over his limit, and Goemon doesn’t look much better (thanks to Lupin's irresponsible encouragement). Jigen can tell because Lupin’s repertoire of stories is becoming less actual stories, and more long winded questions about whether or not the person he’s describing would consider sleeping with him.

“I think it’s nearly time for us to go,” Jigen suggests after an extremely lewd suggestion makes Goemon turn the same red as the countertop cover. Really, at this point the thief is just trying to embarrass the stoic samurai – and succeeding.

Lupin rolls his eyes and giggles, “But Jigen, the night is still young! We have all the time in the world, we could go to another bar – we could go to a nightclub!” His eyes light up, “The ladies _love_ the nightclubs!”

“Yes, yes, and you love the ladies,” Jigen grumbles, pulling cash out of his pocket to settle his tab. The barman is about three comments away from kicking them out, he can feel it.

“But Jigen,” it’s Goemon who speaks this time, apparently recovered from his earlier fit. He usual bored expression is back in place, albeit a little wonky thanks to the amount of scotch Lupin has imbibed him with, “Do you not wish to partake in celebratory procreation?”

Jigen’s halfway through a sip when the words reach his ears. Lupin squeaks beside him with laughter, and Jigen spits the remainder of his drink over the bar as he tries to catch his breath.

“Celebratory – fuck me Goemon”

The barman turns around and takes stock of his now saturated bar. It’s enough to snap him.

“Alright boys! That’s enough. Get out of here.”

* * *

Goemon isn’t entirely sure how the three of them manage to navigate the narrow streets, because he’s certain there was never a point when he didn’t have two sets of arms around his shoulders, keeping him steady.

Nevertheless, they make it back to the townhouse intact, and once inside, Jigen beelines first for the kitchen, then for the sofa. Lupin flops down to the gunman’s right, holding out a hand flippantly. A scotch glass filled with amber is placed in it, and Goemon’s head spins as he focuses in on the liquid.

He flounders for a minute about where to sit, until Jigen places a half full glass to his left. Goemon takes the hint. He takes the spot on the other side of the gunman, crossing his legs with some difficulty.

The fuzziness he was feeling at the bar is back, squeezing the sides of his head tightly. He takes a sip from the glass and finds it eases it momentarily. He leans back into the sofa and starts when he comes into contact with fingers. They’re Lupin’s fingers, the tactile thief having thrown his arm past Jigen’s shoulders when he sat down.

Jigen doesn’t flinch when he sits back against the limb – although – Goemon figures, the gunman has probably had more to drink tonight than both he and Lupin, so it’s highly possible he just doesn’t feel anything at all.

Jigen leans forward and fumbles around on the table in front him. Goemon hears Lupin mumble a question, but there’s only a grunt in response. The gunman sits back triumphant with the television remote in hand. He presses the buttons, and the screen comes to life. Goemon squints at the sudden light. The screen flickers as Jigen changes the channels, looking for gods know what. Finally, the screen stops flickering and Goemon can open his eyes again.

Lupin snorts loudly, and Goemon is certain that if he was slightly less inebriated, he would have caught onto the joke much earlier. The channel has stopped- on a dog show of all things. Lupin snorts again and mumbles something incoherent as a small poodle prances onto the screen, followed by its portly owner.

“It looks like an alien,” Goemon murmurs, not realising he’s said it out loud until Jigen chuckles beside him.

The gunman leans into his space – beard tickling his face – personal boundaries obviously forgotten.

“Just wait,” he rumbles into Goemon’s ear, “If you thought the running commentary at the bar was good. Watching these things while Lupin is smashed is comedy gold.”

He gives the samurai a conspiratorial grin, and for a small moment Goemon forgets how to breathe. Jigen’s eyes are dark brown, but they are lighter around the edges. His angular features are on full display when he’s this close – without his trademark hat to hide anything away.

Jigen seems to be having a similar problem, because even though he shifts slightly under Goemon’s analysing gaze, he doesn’t move far. His gaze drops down and for a second Goemon thinks he might lean back in – then Lupin makes a choking noise, slapping the gunman on the shoulder as he does so, and the reverie is broken. Jigen leans back, scotch glass now in hand and it takes all of Goemon’s discipline to spread his focus to once again take in the rest of the room.

Jigen was right – Lupin manages to turn what would have otherwise been a relatively boring dog show, into a truly atrocious comedy, with his ongoing ranting ( _that was a perfect trot – how dare they take points off for that tail wag)_ and sarcastic commentary. It distracts Goemon from his wandering thoughts about his friend.

Is Jigen his friend? He suspects so – Lupin is his friend now, therefore Jigen must be by proxy. They don’t talk as much as Lupin does with either of them – but then – neither Jigen nor Goemon could be considered great conversationalists, so perhaps this is simply how it will be between them. There is much to be said about the ability to talk between words after all.

Still the thought of ‘what if’ plays through his mind, and like a poison, the scotch in his glass only serves to amplify his focus – rather than dismantle it. What if Lupin had not been sitting beside them? What if Jigen had leaned forwards instead of back? What would Goemon have done then?

Lupin makes an outraged noise as his favourite dog of the event is voted as least handsome; and Goemon tries, and fails to suppress what was supposed to be a small chuckle as he is pulled unceremoniously back into the present by the high-pitched sound. Only it was not a chuckle that left his mouth. It was a giggle – a true, light and airy giggle, one like Fujiko would have made. Lupin and Jigen both stare at him for a moment and he feels all of the blood in his body rush towards his face.

“Goemon, “Lupin starts, grin already beating his words to his face.

“Do not speak.” Goemon hopes he sounds more authoritative than he feels.

He mustn’t because Lupin’s grin just grows wider, “Goemon, that was adorable.”

Jigen chuckles beside him, the deep sound in his chest rumbling through Goemon’s arm where it’s touching him.

“Cease,” he says again, but Lupin just keeps grinning, “I could cut you where you stand,” he threatens, though no one seems to be taking him seriously. Where did he put his sword?

Jigen tilts his head to the side. He has a small smile playing around the edge of his lips but Goemon has discovered fairly recently that his mouth is not where you look to find out if the gunman is truly smiling. His eyes crinkle up at the edges when he’s happy, or amused, and when Goemon focuses in, he can see them – can see the tiny lines that mark the underlying amusement.

He has to focus hard though, because his vision is starting to blur at the edges and every thought feels like its trudging through mud. A bump against his nose distracts him. He leans back. When did he get so close to Jigen’s face? Why had the gunman not pushed him away?

Jigen regards him with a neutral expression. At least, it looks neutral enough. It’s tailored neutral, impossible in Goemon’s current state to ascertain what’s underneath, although he can clearly see the gunman’s pupils are heavily dilated, from alcohol or something else, he’s not sure.

He can feel himself tipping forwards again as he tries to focus, and he has to stop himself from nosebutting Jigen again. Jigen’s eyes haven’t left his face yet, and Goemon wonders if his own cheeks are as red as Lupins. Jigen’s cheeks are ruddy, but his darker complexion hides it well. His beard too. Which was tickly from earlier. Goemon hadn’t expected it to tickle. Had he expected it to be soft?

He lifts a hand without any forethought at all to touch the hair. It is soft – so why did it tickle?

It’s Jigen that leans towards him his time, into the slight touch. Lupin says something unintelligible that Goemon ignores. Jigen is asking a question with his eyes. Goemon suspects the question may be something along the lines of ‘ _why is your hand still in my beard?_ ’

He decides to answer, before Jigen has to say the words out loud. Unfortunately, the message gets lost along the way to his mouth so the only word he manages to get out is a muted “ _soft_.”

Jigen exhales out what might have been the start of a laugh if he’d put more effort into it. The huff of air hits Goemon’s fingers, dances across his knuckles. Goemon has never been an impulsive person. He prefers to think things through multiple times, running through scenario’s until he can find the best possible outcome.

Jigen is so close he can smell the second-hand smoke on his clothes, can smell the cologne he’d put on before they left. He can smell Lupin’s cologne where he’s leaning alongside the gunman – the two fragrances remarkably complimentary to each other, much like their owners. He smells so different to Fujiko, of course he does – and he’s so close that Goemon has to wonder if he would be so different to kiss as well. If his lips would be soft like his beard – but, not that kind of soft, he screws his eyes up to stop the thought from spiralling out of control.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. Jigen’s eyes are drawing him in, the crinkles at the edges beckoning him to come forward just a little more. And he wants to, which is an interesting finding that he doesn’t have the time or the energy to unpack right now. He can see Lupin’s face in his periphery and he gets the feeling that he should feel – something – about this. Lupin stills behind Jigen and his eyes are wide; watching, waiting.

Then he’s leaning up into the gunman’s space – intentionally this time, and he hears Lupin exhale a low breath. Jigen’s lips are thin, his beard still tickles Goemon’s chin; and he was right, it’s nothing like kissing Fujiko. He doesn’t move for a long moment, and Goemon starts to panic.

* * *

Jigen had a few expectations for how the celebration was going to go. Lip-locking with the samurai was not on the list, but it was not a change of pace he was entirely unhappy with.

The first accidental touch caught him by surprise. Goemon was obviously trying to focus on something, and possibly failing if his disgruntled expression was anything to go by. Jigen made a mental note that scotch was probably best left off the table if they wanted a fully functioning samurai after future celebrations.

Then there was a hand in his beard and Jigen was suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe, to concentrate. Goemon has him transfixed with a piercing stare, and Lupin moves beside him and stills, and that’s when Jigen knows he’s watching.

Watching as Goemon cards a hand through Jigen’s beard. Watching as he leans in and presses dry lips to Jigen’s own.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes tightly when Goemon kisses him and Jigen is at a complete loss for what to do. He can feel the moment Goemon starts to panic. Not entirely sure how he’s going to blame this on the alcohol tomorrow, Jigen lifts his closest hand and stops the samurai from moving too far away, before he brings that piercing gaze back up to meet him again. The second kiss is miles better than the first, mostly because Jigen is actually prepared this time.

Lupin’s hand squeezes his shoulder again, and the thief shifts until he’s almost draped over Jigen’s back. He can feel the line of warmth radiating from his shoulder, right down to his waist.

Then Goemon licks his bottom lip, and Jigen feels the very sluggish beginnings of arousal – surprising given how much alcohol he’s ingested tonight. Or maybe, it was just objectively very hot to kiss the samurai while Lupin was sitting right beside him, apparently very on board with this new development.

When Goemon tilts his head to get better access to Jigen’s mouth, Lupin swears in French – Jigen’s been listening enough to pick up _those_ particular words. He can feel the thief’s breath against his ear as he murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like” fuck _, that’s hot_.”

Goemon nips his bottom lip gently before diving back in, dragging Jigen along for the ride. Lupin’s breath ghosts along his neck until –

_Oh._

Those are _teeth._

Lupin’s teeth.

Biting gently at the skin close to Jigen’s earlobe.

Perhaps Jigen hadn’t been entirely correct with his initial assumptions about the thief’s motives. That was both good to know, and damning at the same time.

Jigen feels a hand slide up his thigh – it’s not Goemon’s, because both his limbs are accounted for (one still cupping Jigen’s cheek, the other squashed between Goemon’s body and the back of the sofa). Lithe fingers trail upwards, leaving warmth in their wake. Jigen groans, this is dangerous territory, drunk or not. He flicks Lupin’s hand as it inches closer to his belt. The flick has the opposite of the desired effect, Lupin grabs his hand instead, and places it on his own thigh, close enough that it would only take a single movement to put it directly over his zipper.

Jigen isn’t drunk enough for this. Not drunk enough to potentially ruin all his hard work, for one (probably regretful) night of pleasure. If any of them could get anything up at all – they’re all pretty smashed.

It quickly becomes evident though, that Jigen is going to have to be the reasonable one. While Goemon isn’t handsy, and seems content to just kiss him senseless, Lupin’s hands are wandering into increasingly sensitive areas, and the nips at his neck are turning into sucks, and harder bites that are going to leave bruises.

Goemon makes a small dissatisfied noise when Jigen breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t chase. Lupin grumbles when Jigen paws his face away from his neck.

“Why” he whines, and once again Jigen is reminded starkly of an impudent toddler being told no.

“We’re too drunk,” Jigen says, “To be doing this,” he clarifies for Goemon’s confused expression.

Goemon looks like he’s about to join Lupin in grumbling, but decides against it at the last minute. He leans forward to press a brief kiss to the corner of Jigen’s mouth – he probably aimed for the lips and overshot; and then he goes to stand on wobbly legs.

Jigen can almost visibly see the man go green at the sudden change in altitude. With the only thing on his mind being the preservation of his open scotch bottle and the books on the table he leaps to his feet.

“Bathroom!”

* * *

Jigen rubs a hand, hopefully soothingly down Goemon’s spine as he retches. He probably should have noticed the samurai’s tolerance waning much earlier than he did. Poor kid was going to be in a world of pain tomorrow.

The retching slows and finally seems to have ceased. Goemon reaches blindly for a towel. Jigen hands it to him.

“Why is it,” Goemon says haltingly, between wipes, “that you – who drank more than Lupin and I probably combined – are fine?”

Lupin giggles behind him. Jigen hadn’t heard the thief come in. Goemon turns as if waiting for an answer, but the quick movement starts the retching all over again. Jigen starts his back rub once more. It might not help, but it’s nice to feel like he’s doing something.

“Because,” he says slowly, when the retching slows down, “I’m what you’d call, a functioning alcoholic.”

He doesn’t say it bitterly or anything, but Lupin stills beside him at the words, mid-chuckle. Goemon groans at the answer and shoves the towel into his face.

“I am fine now, I think, thank you Jigen. I will shower, and…retire.”

“You sure?”

He still seems fairly sick, but Jigen’s no expert.

“Yes. Thank you, for your assistance.”

“Alright then, if you need anything, yell.”

Jigen slides past Lupin, who takes his place and leans down to say something to nauseated samurai.

Jigen collects his scotch glass and heads to the front door for a cigarette. He’s probably just about ready to retire too – it’s late, and he’s definitely reaching the upper levels of his own limits. Sick Goemon aside, it was a good night. One he doubts Goemon will remember, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing – he can file that particular memory away for a rainy day.

The click of the door announces Lupin’s presence. He’s stumbling a little, gait exaggerated by his drunkenness. He takes his customary place beside Jigen against the wall. Jigen lifts his glass to take a sip, only to find suddenly gone from his fingers. When he turns his head, Lupin is inspecting it closely.

“M’cutting you off now.”

Jigen raises an eyebrow at the slurring thief, “Why?”

Lupin totters over to the small bush growing in a pot near the fence, and pours the last of the scotch into the soil.

“It’ll kill you; you know.”

Have they had this conversation before? Jigen feels like they have. He shrugs, “Something’s gotta.”

Lupin stumbles back, empty glass in hand.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Die?”

“Mmmm,” Lupin hums, and places the glass on the small table, “You’re not easily replaceable you know.”

Jigen isn’t sure if he’s got the mental stamina for a conversation like this. Not when he’s this drunk, and Lupin is looking at him like _that_ after sucking a solid bruise into his neck not even thirty minutes ago.

“There’s a list of guns for hire you know.”

Lupin frowns, “You’re more than just a gun for hire and you know it.”

There it was. The very thing Jigen was afraid of. The ‘ _you are important_ ’ spiel. He could deal with blossoming friendships. He could deal with unnecessary feelings and attractions from his own end. But he had to draw the line when attachment became obvious from both sides. Because attachment breeds contentment – and contentment is dangerous.

Jigen only knew one way to deal with things like this, but it had always worked in the past. He bristles up, sets to work rebuilding the proverbial fences Lupin has so casually torn down over their partnership; the ones Jigen has _let_ him tear down.

Lupin looks at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer.

“I’m not a nice person. I’m not the sort of person who gets mourned when they die – I’ve killed too many people to be allowed that.”

He needs to remind Lupin of _what_ he is. It’s easy to forget when majority of the work doesn’t involve actual hitman jobs. The blood on Jigen’s’ hands has stained them red over years and years of kills, and no amount of scrubbing or niceties can diminish that fact. Lupin needs to remember that. 

“I’d mourn you, if you died.”

Alcohol makes the thief annoyingly direct.

“Course you would, you’re an idiot.”

“You’re my friend, Jigen.”

He says it with the same tone he uses when he talks about something he’s stolen – ‘this is _mine_ now’. It cuts through Jigen’s soft, soft heart like a sharp knife.

“Yeah well, we all make mistakes.”

Lupin frowns again. He bites down on his lower lip, and his brows knit together in thought.

“I worry about you.”

The knife twists, and if fate were kind, Jigen would be bleeding out on the floor; instead of standing here looking at such an open, honest expression.

“You shouldn’t bother.” He pulls the knife out by the handle, drops it. “I’m not worth it anyway, and I’ll likely be dead before any of you. Either through my own doing, or someone else’s. Save your sentimentality for someone who deserves it.”

The blood forms a pool on the pavers and Lupin looks down as though for a moment he can actually see it.

Then he leans forward, into Jigen’s space. Jigen tenses, for a second he’s worried the thief is going to do something stupid like kiss him – and god knows his mental faculties aren’t operating at the capacity to deal with that right now. 

He doesn’t thankfully. He does reach both hands up to cup either side of the gunman’s face though, inspecting it carefully. Jigen decides to humour him – it’s too late, he’s too tired to do anything else, and regardless of what he does or says, he knows the thief is just going to continue on whatever harebrained train of thought he’s running along with anyway. Lithe fingers skip along the edge of his beard, and run along his lips. Lupin pulls his upper lip at each side, as though he’s a horse, or a dog at a saleyard.

He releases the skin with a soft sigh, and the hands drop to his shoulders.

“Put your teeth away Jigen.”

“Put my - what?”

Lupin squeezes his shoulders, swaying a little in place,

“Your teeth. You don’t –“he pauses, which is unusual in and of itself for the thief, “you don’t need to keep your hackles raised up around me. _I_ know you better than that. _You_ know _me_ better than that.”

And just like that the knife returns to its carved-out position in Jigen’s chest.

“You sure about that?”

“I want to be.”

That’s not fair. That’s not fair in the slightest. That’s not the sort of thing Jigen wants to hear at 3am from a rosy cheeked thief, when his own defences are crumbling down around him.

Damage control is his top priority. It has to be, for his own survival. Being attached is dangerous, and he’s dangerously close to losing his nerve here.

“Go to bed Lupin.”

He stubs out his cigarette and makes a point of not looking at the thief. He already knows without looking, that he’s going to be staring at him with that same intense expression he directs towards particularly difficult safes. The kind of look that makes Jigen feel stripped bare.

Damage control. Top priority.

Sensing defeat, Lupin starts to stumble towards the door. He almost trips on the bottom stair, would have, had Jigen not reached out an arm to quickly stop him. He doesn’t bother letting go when they get inside – he’s resigned himself to the fact he’ll have to drag the train wreck of a thief to bed the way he’s tottering about.

They get up the stairs without issue, and Jigen is pleased to note that Goemon actually managed to drag himself to bed – albeit half dressed and lying spreadeagled on top of the covers. He expects Lupin to walk past the door, and is surprised when he instead stumbles into the samurai’s room, kicking off his shoes.

“What’re you doing?”

Lupin sits heavily on the edge of the bed, peeling socks off with the concentration of a surgeon.

“Someone has to make sure Goemon doesn’t vomit in his sleep.”

Fair. Jigen shrugs and turns towards the door. An iron grip around his wrist stops him.

“Someone also has to make sure I don’t vomit in _my_ sleep.”

This is a set up. Jigen curses himself for missing it. No wonder he hadn’t argued more downstairs, this was probably the plan all along. The iron grip shows no sign of letting go either. Jigen lets out a sigh, he’s too tired, too sore, too lost emotionally to complain.

This is going to be a mistake; he thinks dully as toes off his shoes.

A terrible mistake; as Lupin rolls into the middle of the bed, looping an arm around the unconscious form of the samurai as though he does this all the time. As though this isn’t a completely new development.

An awful, irredeemable mistake; as Lupin drags his tired body down beside him. He’s not going to torture himself by letting himself curl up against the thief, (he’s not that much of a masochist) so he rolls onto his other side. He might be too exhausted to fight the thief on sleeping in the same bed, but he’s not going to play the game of chicken, when he knows it’s one he’ll lose.

* * *

Jigen wakes up to sunlight, and his head feels like it’s going to cave in. There’s something solid under his neck that isn’t a pillow. Closer inspection reveals its Lupin’s arm. He groans. In his sleep the thief had ended up in almost a crucifixion position – one arm under Jigen, the other under Goemon.

Both his colleagues are asleep – thank god. The walk of shame was a hundred times more shameful when the other parties were awake to see it. He moves to sit up and his head spins. The movement wakes Lupin, who looks up at him through one blearily opened eye. A hand pats his leg, “Don’t get up yet.”

“Smoke.” Jigen says, because anything more than monosyllables before he gets nicotine, coffee, and possibly more alcohol to stave off the inevitable hangover, is just not going to work this morning.

He feels slightly more alive when he’s downed his second coffee, which may have been spiked with a small amount of liquor – not that he’ll be telling anyone that.

Goemon walks stiffly down the stairs and looks like death warmed up. Jigen shoves tea in his direction that he takes with a grateful look. He tries to stutter out something – probably an apology.

Jigen waves it away without really listening. It’s not like he actually regretted any of the last nights activities – unless he counted the last conversation with Lupin. It would only be a matter of time before it got rehashed too – Lupin was well on his way to sobering up by the time they’d finally gone to bed. Jigen wasn’t looking forward to that. Hopefully they found another heist and it would be enough to distract the thief for the foreseeable future.

He just needs enough to time to solidify the damage control, and quell his increasingly irritating feelings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.  
> Oh dear me.  
> Enjoy this monstrosity of an update. I'll see y'all when I pick my self-respect up off the floor.


	16. In which the mafia is a lot like a cactus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are pretty much complete, getting close to rounding out at least one story arc (I hope).  
> My sincerest thanks and gratitude to everyone who has read, commented, given kudos. It really is more than I deserve.

“– but you _worked_ for them for _years_ Jigen!”

Jigen’s exasperated sigh reaches Goemon through the window. The two of them have been having this ‘discussion’ for nigh on an hour.

“Being a hitman for the Mob is little bit different to working for the actual Italian Mafia Lupin…”

“They’re basically the same thing though – “

“The same way a flower and a cactus are the same thing.”

A pause. Goemon doesn’t follow Jigen’s unusual line of thought either.

“What?”

“Well they’re both technically plants, but one hurts a lot more when it goes up your ass…”

Lupin makes a noise that sounds like its halfway between an exasperated sigh and a poorly disguised laugh.

“The mafia is the cactus; in case you didn’t realise...”

“Oh, I realised,” Goemon can hear the grin in the thief’s voice, “I know they’re dangerous but I can’t just not send them my calling card because we know they’re dangerous. It would ruin my reputation.”

A lighter clicks, and Goemon smells the faint odour of tobacco, wafting out the window.

“You won’t need a reputation if they order a hit on you.”

Lupin sniggers, and Goemon hears Jigen let out an unimpressed huff, “Are you trying to say you’d miss me?”

“Fuck you,” Jigen growls, although Goemon notes the distinct absence of any malice in his voice, “I just don’t want to have to find another employer, especially since I’ve burned my bridges in America.”

“Ahh, so you would miss me?”

Jigen hums, “You just hear whatever you want to hear - hey, get your own smoke.”

“I’m out.”

Jigen makes a grumbling noise, and a chair scratches against the floor.

“I’d miss you too, you know – “a pause; Goemon imagines a drag of the cigarette is being taken, “if I was dead.”

“Yeah, yeah, nice try. You don’t miss anyone when you’re dead, idiot.”

There’s a second scratch as a chair moves again, and then silence for a few moments. Goemon hears footsteps. Two pairs. They come to a rest about where the window lies in the wall – smoke curls up into the wind.

“Hey, would you make me a nice little shrine to remember me by? Maybe put a handsome photo on it, a nice jewel, a photo of Fujiko’s – “

Jigen interrupts the thief with a low laugh, “You’ll be lucky if I bury you in a public cemetery in a cardboard box.”

“No fair, I’ve been nothing but nice to you.”

“You’re a menace. Give that back.”

Goemon fights to stop himself from smiling at the barely concealed affection in the insult before he realises no one can see him anyway. Things are _almost_ back to normal.

He had actively passed through each of the five stages of grief in record time when he had woken up next to Lupin, head splitting down the middle; and was regaled with tales of their drunken shenanigans after the last heist. Terrified the dynamics between them were going to change for the worse, it took all of his willpower to not flee for the hills. It was only hours later when he realised, he had nothing to fear.

The night was never discussed explicitly between the three of them. Jigen had waved away his attempt to talk, and Lupin had merely shrugged and said, “I’ve made worse decisions more than once, I’d take that one again any day.” Jigen and Lupin continued on as they had before, only now Goemon felt less like an outsider. Lupin started making more jokes for him, and more jokes at his expense. Jigen didn’t flinch quite as much when he walked through the door anymore.

He could see himself staying here. Not Italy specifically, but with his two colleagues. He already knew he enjoyed Lupin’s company, and watching Jigen emerge from underneath his hat was as fascinating as it was entertaining. The last heist (and the celebrations after, whether they were discussed or not) had been a tipping point. A definitive moment where Lupin and Jigen had lifted the edge of their box, inviting him in. And it had been so easy - the three of them worked together like a well-oiled machine. Their skills covered so many bases that Goemon sometimes wondered how he’d worked alone for so long.

For months, Goemon had only seen their group as two pairs. Lupin had often referred to the samurai and Fujiko as a single cohesive unit as a joke – although the thief and Jigen were no better. They may as well have been two sides of the same coin. Sure, they swapped out their partners every now and then, and Goemon did not always work exclusively with Fujiko, but it was the assumed standard.

Not now though. Now they were three; inexplicably so, and that thought warms Goemon to the core more than he ever expected.

A low chuckle breaks him out of his internal thoughts. Jigen is laughing at something Lupin had muttered, or was continuing to mutter. The low rumble of laughter rolls out, much like the cigarette smoke, loosely curling out of the window.

A month ago, he would have felt excluded, but he knows better now. He knows now that the key to figuring out how much trust Jigen has in you isn’t based on how he acts when you’re together in the same room. It’s based on how he acts when he _knows_ you’re around but he can’t see you. He knows now that the most serious things Lupin says are the things he says when it sounds like he’s joking, and that he can be as quiet as a mouse when the situation requires it; he just prefers not to. He’s learned a lot about his colleagues, and it’s this new information that he’s discovering that makes him want to stay – to discover more.

Goemon reaches into his hakama for the letter that has been sitting heavy against his chest. He has avoided replying to Fujiko until now, perhaps against his better judgement. Her outright betrayal still stings, although his training and discussions with Lupin have dulled the sensation.

The letter is, surprisingly frank considering it was written by someone who lies for a living. Goemon appreciates the effort, and the humiliation it would have taken for Fujiko to admit that she was wrong. It does pain him to read between the lines – to realise that this will likely not be a one-off occurrence. That if he continues to work with Lupin without her, then the chance is there that she may still take advantage of the infatuated thief, to further advance her own goals.

* * *

He has struggled with digesting that since he first opened the letter. It was only days later, when he’d had a particularly long discussion with Lupin regarding Fujiko’s whereabouts that he found any sort of relief.

Lupin had asked politely if he could read the letter, and upon finishing he’d been silent for longer than Goemon had ever seen. For the first time in perhaps the entire history of their acquaintance, Goemon had been the one to break the silence.

“What do you think?”

Lupin had just hummed quietly, tapping away at the table. Eventually he said, “I expected as much.”

“You did?”

Lupin had nodded slowly, eyes rolling over the paper once more, “Fujiko has had her own agenda from the start. I knew that. She’s a smart woman.”

Goemon had agreed, this he already knew. He’d been working with Fujiko for what seemed like years now. When Lupin asked if it still troubled him that she could betray the three of them he’d almost bitten his tongue and lied. Almost.

“Yes. Before we parted ways, I told her, in no uncertain terms that if she betrayed me once more, it would be the last time.”

“And you are concerned that she will betray you again, despite the warning.”

“Yes.”

Lupin hummed again, fingers running over the textured letter paper, deep in thought. Then out of nowhere his face broke into a large grin, much to Goemon’s confusion. By the time he broke into loud laughter, Goemon was absolutely lost.

“Lupin?”

The thief rummaged around the table, hand held up triumphantly when he found a pen.  
“She’s a smart girl Goemon. A very smart girl.”

Goemon was still lost.

Lupin was running his eyes over the letter feverishly, until he found what he was after and he underlined it.

“She’s not betraying _you_.”

“I don’t – “

“She writes specifically that she will betray _me_ , Lupin the third. And she specifies _me_ only. She hasn’t written this off the top of her head, she’s thought about it. Each word in this letter is carefully considered. She’s found a loophole in your threat.”

Goemon looked at the phrases Lupin had underlined, and now that it was being pointed out, he could see the double meanings in the words as clear as day.

“Yes, when she betrays me, she runs the risk of betraying you and Jigen by proxy – but she’s specifying here that her intent is to only double cross _me_ should the situation arise. I’d even wager that if we do work with her and she intends to double cross me, she’d probably tell you if you asked, and then she’d do it anyway. God she’s terrifying. We should marry her.”

Goemon had sat for a moment in stunned silence while he digested the words, “wait, we?”

The thief gave him a downright filthy wink, before handing the letter back over, “I’m calling dibs on being best man at your wedding. Jigen will have to settle for groomsman, although if we give him enough liquor, we might be able to bully him into being a maid of honour, _oo-oh_ wouldn’t that be a sight?”

Now Goemon was stunned for entirely different reasons. He didn’t want to know why, or how Lupin had put so much thought into this. Or maybe he just spewed out words that came to the forefront of his mind as they arrived – either of those was a likely scenario.

“It does not bother you then, that Fujiko intends to betray you?”

The thief had shrugged, “Not at all. If anything, it keeps things interesting. She’ll keep Jigen on his toes, although – “he grimaced, “-it might cost me another helicopter or two.”

Goemon opens the letter, and runs his fingers over the lines that have now been underlined. He re-reads the words again. Jigen and Lupin have moved from the window if the noise of chairs moving in another room is anything to go by. It is nearly nightfall – hopefully Lupin and Jigen have come to an agreement on when the calling card will be posted, otherwise it’s going to be a long night.

He stands fluidly, and slides through the window to the now empty room where the two thieves had been earlier. He pads down the hallway towards the office. He needs a pen. After much deliberation, it is time to extend the proverbial branch of peace.

* * *

At Jigen’s insistence, Lupin agrees to just send out a public calling card – rather than a personalised one to the local mafia. After all, he reasons, they’re not targeting the local crime family – they’re just trespassing on their turf to target someone else who owns a very expensive jewel collection. Which definitely won’t make them targets themselves…

When the bank receives the calling card, Jigen can almost see the city around them descend into chaos. Police patrols increase tenfold - and when he walks down the street, he notices a definite increase in people who he’d bet his best rifle, work for the mafia.

It’s rolled around every news network in the area – ‘ _Infamous Thief Lupin the Third – threatens robbery in less than a month!’_.

“You just like the attention,” Jigen tells him snidely one morning when he catches the thief hanging onto every word of the morning news, waiting for ‘ _his_ ’ section.

Lupin just grins. Yes, he likes the attention, but he also likes the challenge. And sending out the calling card this early – has created a myriad of challenges for them to negotiate.

* * *

Lupin’s forward planning works in their favour. He’d snuck into the bank close to a week ago as a cleaner and bugged the entire office floor. Now they could listen in to the security briefings from the comfort of their small office.

They listen in for three days before they hear something worthwhile. The higher ups are worried that they’ve been bugged (they are infuriatingly correct), so they want to take their negotiations elsewhere. Somewhere temporary – where the thieves won’t possibly be able to bug them and listen in. Apparently, a meeting above a loud dance hall is what meets that criteria. So, a charity ball is being prepared.

Lupin is leaning over Jigen’s shoulder, ear pressed close to the headset so he can listen in as well. Jigen can feel every breath the man takes, the smell of his cologne distracting to the point where he’s barely listening to the address of the ball. One of Lupin’s hands is placed on the arm of the chair, the other is placed heavily on Jigen’s other shoulder, anchoring the man in place while he listens. It’s grounding, and suffocating. The man in the office can’t stop talking soon enough for the gunman’s taste. When he finally does, Jigen goes to stand, only to find himself swung around by the shoulders to face a grinning thief.

“Well?”

Jigen cocks an eyebrow. This is another added layer of complexity on an already complex job. Interesting, yes. Wide-faced grin inducing? Not quite.

Lupin slides towards him and grabs one of his hands, still grinning like a maniac. It takes the hand on his waist for him realise that the idiot thief is trying to dance with him. He sighs, and lets himself be dragged around the room by the overly exuberant Lupin.

“I love dances! They’re so much fun!”

It’s an awkward rendition of some sort of waltz, rhythm completely ignored, in favour of swinging Jigen around in circles. It takes three goes to finally extricate himself from the man.

“I hope you know how to dance better than that,” Jigen says bluntly to Lupin’s pout, “Or we’re going to be found out very quickly.”

“I know how to dance, thank you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Lupin pouts again, and Jigen escapes the room with a muttered, ‘smoke’, and Lupin’s loud ‘ _well, maybe I could use SOME practice’_ in his ears.

They’re going to have to front up to the dance. They’ve really got no choice if they want to stay ahead of the security briefings. And somehow Jigen doesn’t think Goemon is going to take one for the team, and partner with Lupin for this particular section of the heist – although the mental image of Goemon in a western three-piece suit, complete with sword; is kind of amusing, and also, kind of hot.

Shoving the image to the back of his mind, Jigen continues down the hallway. He’s going to need some serious alcohol on board to spend an entire night pretending to be Lupin’s date – assuming that’s the cover story they go for. It’s hard enough being in close proximity with no outlet available for his increasingly troublesome ‘feelings’. He might have to take a holiday after this. A month or two, maybe somewhere in Canada. Far, far away, where he can cool off. Enough time to level his head so he can work without being distracted.

He checks his watch before he reaches for the door handle. The sun should be out of his eyes by now, no need to grab his hat for a quick smoke. He’s not expecting anyone to be on the other side of the door, so when he almost runs into the figure, arm raised, about to knock, he swears loudly.

“The fuck are _you_ doing here?” he all but growls around the butt of the cigarette.

Fujiko raises an eyebrow at him, and folds her arms across her chest, “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Jigen,” she says primly.

Like an omen of bad luck, of course _she_ had to turn up as well.

* * *

“What the hell are you boys doing?” Fujiko hisses after Jigen shuts the door behind her.

“We _were_ working,” Jigen snarks back, “but now you’re here, so I guess we’ll put that on hold indefinitely.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “Do you even realise how many dangerous people you’ve managed to annoy with your little stunt?”

Jigen shrugs, “I assume most of the local gangs, and probably lower level government,” he remembers Zenigata (who’s been doggedly tailing them for close to three months) and adds, “ICPO for good measure.”

“You’ve pissed off the whole damn lot of them. The whole of the family is out for your blood.” Fujiko has her hands on her hips now, as though Jigen is personally responsible for the whole catastrophe.

“Oh,” he says blandly, because honestly, what else do you say when you get told that your head is basically on the modern-day equivalent of a pike.

“ _Oh_ , alright,” Fujiko drawls out sarcastically, “I hope you’ve got a good plan, and a solid getaway – because I’ve booked Goemon for the next month and I’m going to be _very_ _mad_ if you get him arrested or killed over some stupid publicity stunt!”

Lupin appears in the doorway, and Jigen is saved from any further chewing out. The thief gets half a word out before Fujiko rounds on him with the same fury she’d just channelled at the gunman – only somehow intensified.

* * *

Almost a full hour, and three separate promises ( _or rather; one ardent promise, one stony nod, and one heartfelt ‘go screw yourself_ ) to stop being idiots later, Fujiko finally stops yelling. It’s only when she starts talking about the charity ball, which Jigen is sure they haven’t mentioned in front of her yet, that he starts to think something is off.

“Hey,” he interrupts bluntly, “How do you even know about that?”

Fujiko rolls her eyes, “I didn’t just happen to be in Italy for a holiday.”

Two seconds is all it takes for Jigen to do the math. “You’re working with them.”

He reaches for his gun as Fujiko makes a loud, world weary sigh, “I was.”

Undeterred, he holds up the weapon for her to see clearly, “You got three minutes to make a good excuse as to why we should trust you, and not throw you out the door.”

He ignores Lupin’s stuttering beside him and locks his gaze onto Fujiko. She doesn’t seem too perturbed to be staring down the barrel of the revolver. He wonders if she realises how much danger she’s actually in right now. Probably not.

“I _was_ working a few towns over, before you lot decided to announce to the world you were going to steal the jewel collection – which, for the record, is held by a bank that’s under protection.” She huffs, as though it personally offends her, “Then there was a whole shake-up about who knew what, and a lot of my better informants were ‘ _let go_ ’. So, all my hard work has gone down the drain, thanks to you three.”

“How do I know you’re not just bullshitting us again like last time.”

“Believe what you like, but I have a vested interest in both the collection, and keeping at least one third of you alive – so that has to count for something.”

“At least she’s honest!” Lupin volunteers bravely from his corner.

“You don’t get to talk yet,” Jigen grumbles, but he drops the revolver onto the coffee table with a thud.

“If you’re done,” Fujiko says with a pointed look towards him. He nods begrudgingly. “There’s going to be people coming and going from the hotel for a few days before and after the actual ball. The plan is to plant security schematics in one of the room’s safes, so they can be handed over without rousing any suspicion.”

Lupin perks up at the mention of a safe, “So, we just need to find the room, and then we can get all the info we could want!”

Fujiko nods in agreement, “And, I’m expected at the meeting, so I can take some notes in case they change their plans at the last minute.”

Lupin is all ears now, Jigen can see the cogs ticking as his mind goes into overdrive, thinking through the possibilities.

“Well, I’ll need to be the one to crack the safe, because I’ve got the better ear for the things like that – if we haven’t got the combination that is?” He looks at Fujiko, who shakes her head, “Fujiko, you’ll need to attend the ball, and then the meeting, otherwise they’ll definitely know you’ve snitched. You’ll probably need a partner…”

He trails off for a moment before returning to the present with full force, “While I would _love_ to join you Fujicakes, I just don’t think I can be in two places at once. You could take Goemon…”

The image of Goemon in a suit flashes past Jigen’s eyes once more, but his blood runs cold at the next words out of Lupin’s mouth.

“But…I might need him in case we just need to brute force our way into the safe. Besides, we’ve already got someone here who’s spent years working in organised crime. He knows how to talk the talk, and walk the walk without arousing any suspicion.”

“Oh hell, no.”

Jigen wishes he could punch the shit-eating grin right off the thief’s smug face.


	17. Top Heavy

“Could you look a little more like you’re happy to be here?”

Jigen grunts noncommittally before grumbling, “That would imply that I _am_ happy to be here.”

That earns him a sharp punch to the upper arm. It stings, Fujiko is stronger than she looks.

“Oh, _grow up Jigen_!”

The cab pulls into the hotel smoothly, and Jigen is – much to his disgust – forced to play the part of the willing partner, when he notices the distinctive lines of concealed firearms on the hotel security.

He opens the door for Fujiko, who links her arm in his, leading them towards a man who must be a colleague. It must be part of the interview process when organised crime screen for new leaders, for the applicants to look as greasy as possible. Jigen thinks back and can’t think of a single boss he’s ever worked for that didn’t actually look like a criminal posing as a businessman.

A bellboy and a burly grunt walk them towards their room in relative silence. He gets the distinct impression that Fujiko’s mafia colleague didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, and Jigen has to resist the urge to tell him they have that in common.

The burly man opens the door with a low grunt. He leers into Fujiko’s space as she walks past him, ignoring him completely. When Jigen follows her the man glares at him. He looks like he could probably crush Jigen’s skull between his hands, so he keeps his head down and doesn’t say a word until the door is closed behind them.

Fujiko was already scanning the room for bugs, though Jigen doubted she’d find any. If this mob was anything like the one in America, they wouldn’t bother to bug their own operatives. He takes a moment to do a quick once over of the room, before he escapes to the balcony to smoke.

They were a few levels up, which gave Jigen an excellent vantage point to see people coming and going from the hotel (from the front entrance anyway, he’d have to trust that Lupin had the back entrance covered).

He’s almost finished his cigarette when he hears Fujiko swear from inside the room. She’s standing in front of the door with a face like murder when he slinks back in through the sliding door.

“What?”

She turns to face him, arms folded, “We’ve been locked in.”

That’s a definite problem.

“Hmm.”

Jigen tests the door handle, as expected it moves and clicks when it hits the locking mechanism. He presses an ear to the door, it’s too thick to hear if they’ve got someone stationed outside.

“Exactly how far up the food chain are you in this organisation Fujiko?” he asks grimly.

Fujiko sniffs, “Not far enough obviously.”

Not helpful. Abandoning the door, Jigen makes his way to the sofa and flops onto it. At least they’re locked in comfort. Just his luck, to end up locked in a room with possibly his least favourite person in the entire world. He must have done something truly unforgivable in a past life. Fujiko makes an annoyed noise to his left when he pulls his hat down over his face.

“What now?” he snaps. She doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need his eyes to track Fujiko’s movements around the room. She walks to the armchair, and a few minutes later there’s a thunk as her shoes hit the floor.

“What are we going to do?” she asks, interrupting the silence.

“Well, we’re too far up to jump out the window safely, so I was going to take a nap – ow!” Fujiko’s bag hits him square in the chest with thump, making his hat fall to the floor, “what have you got in there, bricks?”

“Bolt cutters.”

Figures. Jigen shoves the bag off and looks over to where she’s sitting, “We’re probably only going to be locked in til tonight right?”

Fujiko nods, but still looks unimpressed, “That’s still nearly four hours we could have been doing recon, and instead we have to – “

“Nap.”

Fujiko rolls her eyes, “How do you and Lupin get anything done if all you do is clown around like idiots and sleep?”

“We get plenty done.”

“Whatever.” She stands up and moves towards the kitchen. Jigen figure’s he’s probably safe to zone out now, so he stretches out to reach his hat and pulls it back over his face.

* * *

He wasn’t planning on actually falling asleep. But the sofa was comfortable, and the white noise of the traffic must have done him in, in the end – because when he next opens his eyes, the sun has changed position and is shining through the window at a different angle.

It’s music that had woken him, he realises. A turn of his head re-orients him to the room. The television is turned on, ballet dancers floating across the small screen, the pixels paying no homage to the true beauty of the movements.

Fujiko is back in her armchair, legs tucked underneath her, chin resting on one of her hands, completely enthralled in the performance. When she notices him moving, she gives a tiny nod in his direction.

“Time?” his voice feels scratchy. He stumbles upright and goes searching for water. He vaguely hears Fujiko say something to his back, but he’s not really listening.

He returns successfully with a glass. Fujiko is still captivated by the dancers. Jigen can relate, he’s got a soft spot for ballet. It’s an old production by the look of the video quality, and it takes a few minutes for Jigen to figure out what the performance is.

“La Bayadère?”

Fujiko nods, “Nikiya is about to die.”

Jigen hums, and takes a sip; the water easing the itch at the back of his throat. On screen the ballerina is being offered an antidote to the poison running through her veins – but she won’t take it. She would rather die than be without her lover. Jigen hasn’t seen this particular show for a while, it used to be one of his favourites.

“I didn’t realise you liked ballet.”

Fujiko’s voice is curious, but not accusing. Jigen shrugs.

“Never came up.” He thought about leaving the conversation there. If they were anywhere else, he probably would have. But there was no-one else here to make sure they didn’t continue their game of proverbial cat and dog, so what the hell, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a ballet fan either though, to be fair.”

She mirrors the shrugging motion, “I’ve always liked dancing. When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina. Then I hit puberty and I got kind of – “

She glances down at her ample chest with a small disgruntled look. Jigen chuckles.

“Top heavy?”

She glares at him, “That’s rude,” she sighs, “but true, they’re good for some things. Dancing is not one of them.”

“Ballet dancing maybe. You’d do alright in ballroom; they’ve got a thing for the hourglass figures there.”

She gives him a curious look. Hell, Jigen is giving himself a curious look internally. This is completely off track for both of them. A conversation that isn’t an argument, or at least one that hasn’t evolved into one. It makes Jigen uncomfortable – mutual interests, or no.

He sits back down on the sofa, ignoring the pointed glances he’s receiving. Fujiko opens her mouth to say something. He shushes her with a raised hand. His quota for being civil has been filled for the next week at least.

“Quit yappin’, you’ll ruin the show.”

She purses her lips together, but acquiesces him, and settles back in her chair to watch the male lead enter an opium-fuelled vision, to reunite with his now dead lover. The next scene was a good one if Jigen remembered it correctly.

* * *

Jigen is outside smoking and doesn’t hear the door unlock with a click. Fujiko does though, and she pokes her head out the balcony door with a triumphant smile.

“We’re free!”

Jigen had suspected the door would open soon, the sun was going down, and there were more people entering the hotel who looked like they were here for a night of dancing as opposed to a board meeting.

“You better get ready then,” he says mildly, as though Fujiko hasn’t spent most of the last half an hour hogging the bathroom anyway.

She puts her hands on her hips, “ _You_ had better get ready. I’m not going to look good enough for both of us.”

“I’ve got another suit, calm down.”

She throws up her hands in exasperation, “well put it on! We’ll have to go downstairs any minute.”

He looks at her, then looks pointedly at the half-finished cigarette in his hand. She huffs loudly and stomps back inside, leaving him to chuckle at her misery.

He does put the new suit on, eventually. Lupin had lent him a shirt that matched Fujiko’s dress, and a newer, fancier tie clip. The jacket is loose enough to conceal both his revolver and Fujiko’s smaller pistol with ease. Her dress is going to be too tight for the usual garter holster.

When Fujiko emerges from the bathroom at last, she certainly looks the part. If he didn’t know better, Jigen would hazard a guess that she really was just here for the night of dancing and drunken debauchery that was likely to follow, and not at all interested in infiltrating a criminal organisation.

They go down the stairs to the main hall, arm in arm, and Jigen’s pocket buzzes. When they’ve found a private corner Jigen checks his phone, hoping for at least a moderately important update. He is disappointed, though not entirely unsurprised to find a message from Lupin asking him to pass on his compliments to Fujiko.

He elects to ignore it. Fujiko knows she looks good; her ego doesn’t require any more stroking. Speaking of the devil, Fujiko slides up beside him holding two wine glasses. She passes one to him and leans up as if to kiss his cheek. When she gets close enough, she whispers the location of the meeting room.

“People will start to move after the third round of dances. Everyone needs to be in the room by the time the music starts for the fourth.”

He takes the wine glass with a nod, and thumbs out a quick message to the thief. The reply comes quickly. He and Goemon have located the safe and will be opening it shortly. Another message lights up the screen as Jigen goes to close the phone, ‘ _enjoy the dancing!_ ’. Jigen huffs out a breath quietly. If he can get away with not dancing in public, he’ll be a happy man.

Fujiko nudges him, and slides her arm around his waist as her contact from earlier in the day starts to move in their direction.

“Arm around me,” she whispers quietly, plastering a large smile on her face as he approaches.

Thankfully Fujiko is the right height for Jigen’s arm to sit comfortably around her shoulders without looking as awkward as he feels. She greets the colleague with honeyed words, and as she does so, her hand slides under Jigen’s jacket, fingers coming to rest on her pistol.

Jigen only starts to pay attention to the conversation when the man’s gaze begins to linger on him more than it does on Fujiko.

“And who is your handsome silent companion here, miss Fujiko?” The question is asked of Fujiko, but the man looks directly at Jigen.

“Bodyguard.” Jigen grunts out. He’s not interested in bandying words more than he has too.

The man looks pointedly at where Jigen’s arm is slung over Fujiko’s shoulders, “You seem very ‘ _clos_ e’ for a bodyguard.”

Jigen shrugs, “perks of the job.” He hopes his bluntness throws the man off asking any more questions.

The man seems satisfied enough, although his mannerisms grate on Jigen’s nerves. He doesn’t trust Fujiko, that much is obvious – and Jigen has worked with the sort of men who flank him. If Fujiko wants to get any information, and not end up passed out in a convenient room somewhere, they’re both going to have to mind their actions.

* * *

It’s cooler outside when Jigen goes out to smoke. Fujiko joins him after a moment, leaning over the balcony thoughtfully. She checks her watch. He offers her a cigarette which she takes with a small thank you.

She checks her watch again.

And again.

And again.

She’s restless – uneasy. He figured as much from when she’d blindly reached for her pistol tucked in his belt. This was not going to do. Jigen hasn’t been in organised crime for a while – but he still remembers the things he used to look for when he was tasked with finding a snitch.

Unease showed its face in a myriad of ways, and it was a tell-tale sign to someone who knew what they were looking for.

“Fujiko,” he murmurs, scanning the guests around them – none of them looked like grunts, but then – he’d never really looked like a grunt either, and that had always worked in his favour.

Fujiko leans towards him. An arm around her shoulders is all it takes to untuck her hair on the other side, shielding her facial expressions from view.

“You need to calm the fuck down; you’re going to blow our cover the way you’re going. You’ve got snitch written all over you.”

When she looks at him her face is placid, but he can see he’s annoyed her. Her eyes give her away.

“That’s better,” he murmurs encouragingly, as though she’s not glaring at him with a look that could cut glass.

“I hate standing around. I hate not being armed, and not _one_ person has told me how pretty I look tonight.”

Jigen tries and fails to bite back a laugh. He ends up choking on a cough while Fujiko glowers at him. Of course, she would be concerned about something so trivial and irrelevant to the actual job.

“God, you’re so fucking conceited.”

The cold glare is back in full force, “Do you have to be such an asshole?”

Jigen doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He pulls out his cigarettes and pushes the packet out towards Fujiko.

“Would it kill you to be nice for five minutes?” she gripes.

He makes a show of thinking about the answer while she takes a cigarette reluctantly.

“Maybe,” he grins when she rolls her eyes, “I wouldn’t want to risk it.”

“Ugh,” she pushes the packet back towards him and checks her watch again.

Jigen taps her wrist, “Oi, what did I _just_ say?”

Fujiko rolls her eyes again – she was going to get a headache if she kept doing that – and grumbles when she can’t move her hand from underneath Jigen’s grip.

“Every time you do that, you may as well hold up a neon sign saying ‘ _look at me’_. If I was still working for the mob, you’d be at the top of my watch list.”

“What do we do then?” her voice is tight, annoyed.

Jigen thinks for a moment, exhales and watches the smoke curl up in front of them. Lupin and Goemon might have the safe – but they still need to infiltrate the meeting. To leave now would only arouse further suspicion. The music inside slows to a stop and the voices swell as new dancers take their places on the floor.

“After the third dance, right? That’s when we meet?”

Fujiko nods and looks inside towards the open floor. She’s obviously following his train of thought. She’s not as silly as she looks. She wrangles her wrist away and folds her arms across her chest – fixing him with a hard stare.

“You’d better apologise for being a dick if you’re going to ask me to dance.”

Jigen scoffs, “You’re kidding right?”

Fujiko sniffs haughtily. Apparently not then. Jigen weighs up his options. The damn jewel collection had better be worth it.

“You look,” he starts cautiously.

She raises a manicured eyebrow and Jigen laments about how easy and satisfying it would be to antagonise her further.

“- slightly above average in that dress tonight.”

The surprised look at the backhanded compliment makes it worth it. He can see the cogs turning over as she tries to decide whether to take the statement as an insult or otherwise.

She sighs, “That’ll have to do I suppose.”

Jigen straightens, and slides the cigarette packet back into his jacket. Lupin had better appreciate the effort he’s putting in for this. Maybe he can wrangle a bit of bonus pay out of him for emotional damages. He holds out an arm with a wry grin.

“Come on, top-heavy-”

Fujiko glares at him. It really is just _too easy_.

“-Let’s dance.”


	18. Lukewarm Arguments and Apologies

The cab driver drops Jigen and Fujiko off at the end of the street with an exceptionally bored, “Thank you.”

The lights are on in the house already – Lupin and Goemon must already be back. Figures. They probably scarpered as soon as they got what they needed. When they walk through the door, they’re greeted by the sight of their two colleagues, both sitting completely still.

The meditative position was not out of the ordinary for Goemon – but Jigen didn’t think he’d seen Lupin actually sit still for more than ten minutes since his five-week forced bedrest. Yet here he was, albeit in an ‘interesting’ position. One leg was slung over the back of the sofa, while his head dangled precariously close to the edge of the cushion. He was nose deep in a book, another thing Jigen hadn’t seen him do properly since he was forced to rest.

Neither man made a noise when they walked in – Goemon opened a single eye, nodded briefly at them and then closed it again. It was only when Fujiko huffed loudly that Lupin looked up from the pages.

“You’re back!” He grins at them, and sends Jigen a cheeky wink, “Did you enjoy the dancing?”

Jigen kicks up his feet on the coffee table, loosening his tie, “Fujiko dances better than you do.”

Lupin pouts, but perks up when Fujiko sits beside him. He throws his legs over her lap, ignoring her grimace when her dress crinkles.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he says blithely, “She is, after all, the epitome of grace.”

That butters Fujiko up enough that she doesn’t seem to care about her dress any longer. Jigen isn’t interested in their flirting. Six hours in close quarters alone with Fujiko was almost enough to leave him uninterested in flirting for life. He is however, interested in the information Lupin retrieved.

“Did you open the safe?”

“Yeah,” Lupin points a foot towards the table, “we took photos. they’re developing now. We saw Pops too – but he couldn’t get us for anything because he was off duty and we hadn’t actually stolen anything.”

“Not that that stopped him from trying,” Goemon’s baritone interjected from across the room.

Lupin chuckles at the memory, “No, he was rather miffed by the end – Goemon separated his car from its tyres – you should have seen it Jigen!” He almost lost the book, he threw his hands up so quickly, “It was hilarious, and very impressive. Befitting of our resident samurai-”

He throws a wink in Goemon’s direction. If Goemon notices, he doesn’t react.

“It was barely worth the effort to draw Zantetsuken. I will need to meditate on my decision to cut such an unworthy object.”

“Hmm.” Zenigata – who Lupin had taken to calling Pops for reasons known only unto himself; was proving to be a stubborn constant. He’d somehow managed to keep tabs on them all the way across Europe; although, this was the closest he’d gotten to actually catching them. It was troubling to say the least.

“Did you find anything new out at the meeting?” Lupin asks, curious now.

“Nothing we didn’t already know. Waste of time.”

Lupin hums and pulls his book open again, “Pity, at least you got to dance with the one and only beautiful, graceful Fujicakes!”

“That’s not as much of a positive for me as it is for you, y’know.”

Jigen can physically feel Fujiko’s icy gaze before he even looks up, “I’m right here Jigen, can you at least wait until I leave to start being mean?”

He shrugs. He’s tired, annoyed, and is starting to feel the beginnings of a headache from the wine they’d been drinking. He’s been listening to Fujiko’s voice for more than half the day and it’s making him physically exhausted – the woman somehow manages to say _so little_ and yet she still uses _so many words_.

“Go to another room then,” he says, a little more bluntly than intended.

There’s a flash of hurt across Fujiko’s face before she tightens her expression back into a glare. Shit. He might have overstepped a line there. Goemon’s eyes are open again, taking in the scene. A tense moment passes, it’s probably the last chance Jigen’s going to get to back down. He doesn’t take it.

“Now, now, now.” Lupin’s voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of frustration, just waiting to rear its head, “Let’s not argue, today’s been successful, we can work out our plan tomorrow when the photos develop, and by the end of the week we’ll all be a little bit richer.”

His hand taps Jigen’s calf and when Jigen meets the thief’s eye, he’s giving him a reproachful look. Jigen cocks an eyebrow – he knows the thief knows him well enough at this point to read him without saying anything. Lupin screws his face up in reply, then sticks his tongue out for good measure ( _he’s off the hook_ ), before returning his attention to his book.

“What’re you reading?” Jigen asks. He’ll throw the olive branch out to Lupin, its in his best interest to keep the thief on side.

Lupin holds the spine up towards Jigen, its fairly faded though, “I brought it when we left Uncle Alfred’s, he had the whole collection.”

“Conan Doyle’s a bit ironic for a career thief isn’t it?”

Lupin grins, “I’m just getting some tips from one of the masters.”

“Hmm, as if you need any help causing chaos.”

Lupin makes a noncommittal chuckle and returns to his reading. The room is comfortably quiet, even Fujiko is silent, head tipped back, the long day finally taking its toll on her.

Jigen could fall asleep right here if he didn’t move. The sofa in the hotel had spoiled him though, his back ached for something softer. He ambles into the kitchen, narrowly misses knocking over the kettle in his search for his coffee mug. He’s staring into the black depths of his coffee, contemplating whether it’s worth testing the milk (it’s been in the fridge for a few days) when footsteps start their way down the hall.

Lupin. One foot is heaver than the other – from the explosives he keeps in the soles. He’s not sneaking per say, but he’s walking more quietly – probably hoping to elicit a jump scare from the unsuspecting gunman.

Jigen grins to himself, the thief is out of luck tonight. He waits until the last second to turn around, “What’s up?”

Lupin’s smile turns into a disappointed frown, “No fair.”

Jigen makes a noise in the back of his throat, it was going to be a word but he lost interest halfway through. Lupin nudges him aside to grab his own mug from the cupboard. He’s shaking the kettle experimentally when he speaks.

“What do you want to do after this job Jigen?”

Jigen’s glad his coffee is covering his face, and his surprise at the question, “Haven’t thought about it.”

Lupin blows on his coffee a few times, before he resorts to his disgusting habit of tipping a small portion of hot liquid into the sink, and replacing it with cold water. He takes another sip, this time with a more pleased expression.

“Goemon and Fujiko have something planned. I thought we might go somewhere too; we’ve been here for a while.”

Jigen hums around his mug. Of course, Lupin would be planning another heist before this one even finishes. Is this the time to ask for time off? Canada for a few weeks was looking particularly fine.

“I wouldn’t mind going to Switzerland,” Lupin is saying, oblivious to Jigen’s internal monologue, “We could go and see the alps – well actually I only want to see the alps because I was reading and got inspired but still…”

Jigen was confused now, “Wait, is this not a job?”

Lupin gives him an incredulous look, “No, keep up Jigen, a holiday.”

“The two of us?”

“Ye-es” Lupin stresses the word into two syllables, “Gosh, I didn’t realise you were such a workaholic. We haven’t had a break for ages.”

“You want to go on a holiday, with me?”

A sardonic look affixes itself to Lupin’s face, “Who else am I going to go with, you idiot?”

“Uhhh,” Jigen hasn’t got an answer for that. Or for his original question. So much for damage control.

Lupin claps his shoulder and squeezes, leaving his arm around his shoulders, “Think about it – I can probably be persuaded to go somewhere other than Switzerland if you’ve got somewhere else you want to go.”

Lupin is a warm presence against Jigen’s side, anchoring him in place. Suddenly, Jigen isn’t so sure damage control is going to cut it anymore. He might be in a little too deep for that now. _Scratch that_. He knows he is. He’s been lying to himself for weeks. He’s had to up the ante especially since their drunken fooling around – there was no way he was able to chalk those teeth marks up to friendly banter (they took _days_ to fade). And the heavy conversation afterwards – that definitely didn’t count as small-talk.

Lupin is sipping his coffee, observing Jigen from the corner of his eye. It’s one of the things Jigen truly does appreciate about the man – for someone who talks so much nonsense on a regular basis, he sure knows how to be quiet when he needs to be. Jigen feels tired. He’d felt tired before, but the weight of his thoughts was sapping him of the last of his energy.

He chances another look at the thief, sipping away like he hadn’t a care in the world. It would be so easy, he reflects – especially when Lupin catches his eye – to just lean in. It would be so easy, to just rest his head on the inviting shoulder; to drop all of his proverbial baggage, to stop running. Lupin knows he’s a mess anyway – he had Jigen and his demons figured out from the start. And it hadn’t stopped him yet.

After the heist. Switzerland is a good a place as any for a heartfelt confession. Not that he probably needs one – the thief is smart, observant. He’s been reading between Jigen’s lines for months. Surely, he knows by now. Surely.

“Switzerland sounds good.”

Lupin squeezes his shoulder, his thumb rubbing tiny circles over the bony prominence. He smiles widely, and it makes Jigen’s chest constrict.

“Excellent!”

He starts to amble away, leaving Jigen in thoughtful silence. He turns his head back when he reaches the doorway, “Oh, and Jigen – _please_ try not to kill Fujiko before we get the jewels.”

That’s more like what he had initially expected from the thief. Jigen lifts his mug up in acknowledgement. Lupin waves back with his own mug as he wanders back towards the living room.

Jigen’s coffee is lukewarm by the time he finishes it.

* * *

Jigen needs a new toothbrush. The old one is starting to look a little worse for wear. He taps his back tooth with the solid end of the brush – it hasn’t been hurting lately, but he’s got a feeling it might play up soon. He’ll have to look for a dentist.

He nearly walks right over Fujiko on his way to the bedroom. She’s standing outside his door, looking like she can’t decide if she wants to knock or not. First Lupin springing a holiday on him, now her. Could he not catch a break at all?

“What do you want?” he says bluntly after he opens the door and slides in around her.

She’s got an expression on her face that looks like she can’t decide if she wants to yell at him, punch him, or kick him through the window. Probably all three – he _had_ been a bit of an asshole earlier.

“What is your problem?” she bites out once the door clicks closed. She walks right up into his space, poking him hard in the sternum. “We were getting along fine at the hotel.” She pokes him again, to emphasise her words, “Do you really despise me that much?”

Despise is probably a strong word – Jigen considers, though not completely off the table if she continues yelling, at this time of night, after a long day.

“Have we ever _really_ liked each other Fujiko?” he offers, but that only riles her up more.

“You’ve never bothered to get to know me” She pokes him hard once more and he’s sure he feels a rib snap, “How long have we worked together for now? 6 months on and off? 8? 10? If you had bothered to get down off your high horse at _any point_ during that time, you might have found something to like about me – instead of sitting in your corner, jealous because your boyfriend isn’t giving you all the attention.”

That stung below the belt – and was royally untrue to boot (no matter how much Jigen might wish otherwise in the privacy of his own mind). How dare she so brazenly assume -

“Lupin isn’t my boyfriend.”

“He could be if you took the stick out of your ass.” She’s got her hands on her hips now, “But that’s beside the point. I am – _trying_ – here Jigen. And _you_ are being purposefully obtuse.”

“Look,” Jigen takes a step back to avoid any more chest trauma, “Leave Lupin out of this, my issue is with you. I don’t like you, but I don’t not-like you. You’re right, I don’t know you – but that’s not the problem. I barely know you, and you’ve already double-crossed me for money twice. It’s gonna take a little bit more than a change of heart change my opinion of you.”

She opens her mouth to argue but he holds up a hand.

“Not finished. You double cross us, then you waltz in here – knowing perfectly well that my infatuated idiot of a friend is going to turn around and do whatever the hell you ask. Hell, you turned up this time, practically reeking of betrayal, if your informants hadn’t been let go, would you even have bothered to come to us?”

She doesn’t answer and he knows then he’s found a sore spot.

“I didn’t think so. You can be as pleasant as you want but that means nothing if you’re going to turn around at the last minute and sell us out. You might have Lupin wrapped around your little finger, and you might still have Goemon’s loyalty for the most part – but I,” he points to his own chest now, “I’m an asshole. I hold grudges. And you’ve done nothing at all as of yet to erase yours.”

Fujiko purses her lips. For once in the entire time Jigen’s known her, she apparently has nothing to say. Good. If only that happened slightly more often.

“I can, and will be civil if you give me a good reason to be, like you did earlier today.” Jigen says when it becomes obvious that Fujiko is still not going to say anything, “I will work with you if I have to, but I don’t trust you. You’re gonna need to _try_ a bit harder to change my mind on that.”

She folds her arms across her chest and huffs, “Fine.”

Jigen takes a step past her and opens the door, “Go on, run along to Goemon, or Lupin, or whoever you’re fucking tonight. We’re done here. I’m tired.”

He can see her jaw tighten as she walks past him out the door, back ramrod straight. She’ll probably run to Goemon he expects, Lupin’s still downstairs ignoring the rest of the world with his book. He’s probably more likely to comfort her anyway, given their history – what he sees in her, Jigen will never know.

Jigen groans, he was ready for bed and now that he’s riled up again, he feels the urge to smoke. It’s such a long way back down the stairs. If only Lupin hadn’t enforced the ‘no smoking inside’ rule when they first arrived. Jigen grabs his lighter and curses the thief the whole way down the hallway.

* * *

Goemon retires, as he had planned to earlier – to meditate on his decisions. He and Lupin likely could have gotten away from Zenigata without falling back on Goemon’s skills. He tries to pinpoint his decision.

They had seen Zenigata before he had seen them. Lupin had ‘of course’ been unable to leave well enough alone – and had to try and get his attention. The officer had taken chase on foot to start with, a mistake on his part, Lupin and Goemon were both quick. Goemon remembers the rush of exhilaration that came with being actively pursued by an assailant – he remembers Lupin catching his eye and grinning as they round a corner. It felt good.

They nearly trip over the squad car when it roars out in front of them. Goemon clears it in a single leap, Lupin vaults over the bonnet. They keep running – Lupin is laughing. Zenigata yells something from the window, and there is a screech of tyres, the smell of burning rubber.

“Can you slow him down Goemon?” Lupin asks – it is not really a question, but a joke. Banter. Goemon doesn’t have to answer, of course he can slow the old man down. Lupin’s laugh echoes through his head when he stops, and draws Zantetsuken – visualises, then completes the necessary movements to separate the vehicle from its wheels – cuts at the axels, no more, no less.

Zenigata’s face is one of abject horror when he sees the wheels continuing on their trajectory while the car body falls solidly with a loud thud. Goemon allows himself a moment of enjoyment in his work before he sheaths the blade and leaps to catch up with the thief. Lupin’s face lights up when he lands beside him, and Goemon’s pride puffs up under the lavish praise Lupin extols upon him.

There it is. His foolish pride – standing in the way of progress. He will never improve if he continues to search for the praise of others instead of inner discipline. No matter how good it feels, he must remember that he carries an artefact of great importance – he should think twice next time before sullying the great blade with something so unworthy of its might.

He hears the footsteps well before they reach his door – and even if he hadn’t the door opens with a creak. He cracks open an eye to see Fujiko sliding through the entryway. She’s dressed for bed as well, makeup gone, hair down. She is beautiful. And cunning. And deadly, he reminds himself as she falls back onto the bed in a movement so reminiscent of the way they were before – that for a moment he forgets that she had so callously betrayed him. Only for a moment though.

It’s probably very telling that despite her betrayals he still desires her, still wishes to hold her close. Fleetingly, he recalls a different kind of closeness, one that smells of second-hand smoke and cologne, a rough hand and the scrape of facial hair. He feels his face begin to redden and thanks the ancestors for the low light in the room. He doubts Fujiko would care – she would probably encourage him – but that was a conversation for another time perhaps.

Her head lands in his lap like it belongs there, and Goemon stiffens without thinking at the sudden contact. She looks up at him and he can see the flicker of hurt in her eyes at his unconscious actions. She sits back up, and he wills his muscles to relax – to not ruin everything.

“You’re still angry with me.”

It’s not a question. She’s too smart for that. She knows he probably is.

“It is, complex,” he says slowly, and to her credit she nods infinitesimally in agreement.

“Your actions, as I have said previously, were indefensible,” he continues quietly, “I am no longer angry, although I admit I am still disappointed.”

Fujiko’s fingers dance along her knees. Her nervous tic. She never realises she’s doing it until it’s too late.

“I want to fix it.”

Goemon inclines his head, “And you can. I look forward to the day I can place my trust in you implicitly once more.”

Her mouth twists, and she makes a small noise. She looks like she’s going to say something – instead she exhales and closes her eyes. It matters not. Goemon has time, and patience in spades for this untrustworthy woman, who he more than anything, wants to be able to trust again.

It’s a few minutes later when she opens them and says softly, “I don’t _want_ to lie to you anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

She grimaces, “It’s not that easy.”

She looks physically pained as she tries to enunciate the words in her mind. Her fingers are tapping a staccato against her thigh, both hands now.

Goemon has missed her – even if it pains him to admit it to himself.

She tenses when he covers her hands with his own to stop the soft drumming. Against his own better judgement, he pats his lap. Then it’s a losing battle to quell the comforting warmth spreading through him as for the second time that night, her head lands in his lap like it belongs there. Her hair is mussed from the movement and Goemon runs a hand through it, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. It seems so long ago now when they had last just been together as two people, two friends, with no jobs to rush, no betrayals to contend with.

“I missed you,” Fujiko says, as Goemon runs his fingers idly across her scalp, tangling in her hair. She looks up at him with wide warm eyes and Goemon can’t find it in himself to doubt her.

“And I, you,” he says honestly, moving his other hand to join in the soft combing. Goemon is not a touchy person by nature, but for Fujiko he is willing to make an exception. He knows this is something Fujiko enjoys, the first time he’d done it by accident (many months ago now) she’d almost purred like a cat with pleasure. He enjoys it too; it’s cathartic, almost meditative in a way. A way to be close without the unnecessary addition of the suggestion of more ‘carnal’ activities.

He stills his hand for a moment, focusing on how each strand of hair feels against his fingertips. They still have a heavy conversation to finish.

“Tell me why it’s not easy.”

Fujiko purses her lips together before speaking, “I have – “

Goemon restarts his ministrations when she starts talking again, and it seems to loosen her tongue.

“- a lot of things going on. A lot of overlapping things. Sometimes I feel like I’ve taken on too much, but I’m holding too many strings to let go of even one.”

Goemon hums, “You are a like a spider with many webs. You must take care, or you will find yourself bound in the middle by your own doing.”

“I am sorry, for before.”

Goemon pats her head softly, “I know.”

“There are still things I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches out between them but it’s not the uncomfortable kind anymore. Fujiko’s hair is soft under Goemon’s fingers, and he brushes through it methodically. Fujiko closes her eyes and leans into the touches.

Footsteps thud up the hallway. Probably Lupin’s – Jigen’s door had been tightly shut when Goemon walked past earlier. A door swings open, then clicks shut. The band of light visible under the door is extinguished.

If only time could stop right here. It’s a selfish wish, to want to keep moments like this forever – Goemon knows that. But it doesn’t make them any less precious. All too soon it would be over, the spell over the moment would be broken, and they would be pulled abruptly back to the present – to the looming uncertainty of what now lay between them.

Without warning, Fujiko leans up on her elbows and nudges his crossed legs. He is confused for a moment. It’s only when she shimmies back into his space, he realises her ulterior motive. She’s flush against his chest, and there’s nowhere for his arms to go but around her. He has been successfully played again – although, he has to wonder if it even counts when he doesn’t exactly mind the outcome.

“Hold me?” She asks hesitantly, as though it’s possible he might say no.

He drops his head against hers, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo that lingers in her hair. It’s distinctive, expensive smelling – very Fujiko. Her fingers trace lines on his forearms when they wrap around her.

All that training, and yet still here he is – completely defenceless against this woman. A living testament to his failure. He should feel worse about it than he does. Perhaps he has been spending too much time with Lupin and Jigen. Perhaps between the two of them they have dulled his training – Jigen, with his casual nonchalance about, well, everything; Lupin, with his passion for life and all it entails, forgoing any kind of discipline in favour of excitement. Perhaps they have rubbed off on him.

Fujiko’s hands curl loosely over his and she leans back, head nestling comfortably against his shoulder.

Perhaps it is not a bad thing they have rubbed off on him, so long as he can recall his training when the timing is right. When he returns to Japan, he will consult the ancestors, consult his teachers. Maybe they will shed some light on the mystery.

“Goemon?”

He only hears his name the second time Fujiko says it. He taps her hipbone with two fingers, to let her know he’s listening.

“You know, don’t you, that I am not here just to – “she pauses a moment, shifts in his embrace, “I’m not just here to sleep with you or Lupin. It’s true I wasn’t planning on joining with you for this job, I had my own plans elsewhere – but that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to join up with you guys. Not _everything_ I do has a double agenda.”

She speaks softly, but with such conviction. Goemon already has an inkling about where this has come from. He hadn’t said as such earlier (perhaps he should have), but he wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to send Jigen and Fujiko off together. The two barely got along when Lupin and Goemon were there as buffers. Their conflicting personalities would be their undoing every time. He shudders to think what would have happened behind closed doors.

He realises Fujiko is waiting for him to say something. He taps her hip again, slowly.

“I know that. Did something happen?”

She sighs, leaning heavily back into his chest, “I tried to talk to Jigen.”

Deduction, correct.

“This late?” That was probably her mistake – Goemon had seen the distinct weariness in Jigen’s expression when they returned.

“We,” she lifts her hands to gesture in front of her, “we were fine earlier. We weren’t even close to arguing! Then he just flipped…”

Goemon hums as Fujiko continues to rehash the argument she’d had with the gunman. She was probably lucky she hadn’t had the door slammed in her face to start with. Jigen was a notoriously closed box at the best of times. Even when watching the gunman and Lupin interact – Goemon got the feeling that he was still keeping things from the thief, still keeping parts of himself under lock and key despite spending almost every hour of every day with the man.

A man that dedicated to keeping himself hidden must have reason to do so. He suspects it is less to do with discipline and more to do with self-preservation. Stakes are high when you work as a hit-man, and Jigen has been one for longer than most, even if he’s not technically active at the moment.

Fujiko has stopped talking and is waiting for a response. Goemon tries to think how best to put his train of thought into words.

“I suspect, that Jigen is a man who harbours many demons, with no way to eradicate them,” he says finally, “eventually they must take their toll on him.”

Fujiko huffs softly, “That doesn’t mean he has to be a dick.”

She is technically correct, but Goemon thinks it might be more complicated than that.

“The river that seeks to flow down the mountain will take the path of least resistance. Anger is an easy emotion to lose yourself in. And while he has not been recently, previously Jigen has shown himself to be a veritable untapped well of anger.”

“You think Lupin has made him less angry?”

Goemon nods, even though she can’t see, “I am certain of it.”

“I’m glad we didn’t know him before then, if he’s ‘ _nice_ ’ now.”

Once more silence falls over them. Goemon mindlessly traces circles with his fingertips in the soft fabric of Fujiko’s dressing gown. His selfish thoughts rise to the forefront of his mind like beasts from the churning ocean. His self-centred wish to keep Fujiko close was once again rearing its ugly head. It would be difficult – he knew – to keep both Fujiko, as well as Lupin and Jigen close. Fujiko always did have a tendency to wander, such was her way. And well, they had already touched on why close proximity with Jigen was not an optimal idea.

Could time change that? It may require deeper contemplation, Goemon suspects, to truly find the answer. Could time truly change the four of them enough, to keep them together as colleagues – as, _friends_? It had changed Goemon and Fujiko, slowly but surely – as they took less jobs without the other over the time they worked together (forced distance due to betrayals not included).

Lupin and Jigen hadn’t done a job without each other in months. Sure, Jigen had disappeared a few times, mainly when Fujiko entered the scene, but he always came back. And he’d not done separate jobs as far as Goemon could tell. Perhaps this was something he could consider in greater detail on his return to Japan. From a tactical perspective, unit cohesiveness would _always_ be a worthwhile use of his time and concentration.

Before that though.

Fujiko was still awake; he could hear as much from her breathing. He stilled his fingers and waited for her to move. It took only minutes until she shifted, turning her head to look as far back as she could.

“Fujiko, do you require assistance?” it was better to be blunt, he assumed, with these kinds of things.

It was only when she asked ‘what’ that he realised he may need to be slightly clearer with his intent.

“With your webs. If you require assistance, you need only ask. We – Lupin and Jigen as well – we can help you.”

She makes a small sigh and Goemon can feel her entire body move with the effort.

“Thank you,” she says, lacing their fingers together where his hand rests against her thigh, “But these are things I need to do myself.”

He squeezes her hand, “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Visualise the well-known meme, the confused anime man, pointing towards a butterfly. Only the man is the author, the butterfly is a very minor plot point from this chapter, and the lower text reads, ‘is this an attempt at foreshadowing?’
> 
> 2) I'll be AWOL for the next month or so with university exams. I've got partial chapters written but they require extensive editing so updates will be a little more sporadic than they have been previously.


	19. Unlikely Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Buckle up dudes and dudettes. These last two chapters have been edited so they're getting dumped on you now, rather than waiting until later. Enjoy. I'm still AWOL - I just thought you'd appreciate the wrap-up.

As far as plans go – this had to be the most thought out one Goemon had seen in his time with Lupin. A large sheet of paper, sticky-taped together on the coffee table had greeted him that morning. Lupin was sketching, maps thrown about around him haphazardly.

He had come downstairs just in time to see Jigen and Fujiko leave, the tone of their voices indicating that light bickering had already begun for the day. A begrudging truce had been struck between the two only a few days ago, and though it appeared to holding up at the moment – only time would tell.

“Where are they going?” Goemon asks of Lupin, as he sits down on the floor opposite the studious thief.

Lupin takes maybe half a second to look at up him before returning to his maps, “They’re going to find a landing spot for the helicopter. I think they might be going for a practice flight too; Fujiko doesn’t think she’s piloted our model before.”

“I see,” Goemon turns his attention to the papers, Lupin has dot points down the side that he’s crossing off as he works.

“They’ll be back in a few hours,” he continues, “If they’re not back by tonight they’ve probably thrown each other off a cliff.”

“Do you have an approximation of our plan of attack yet?”

Lupin rummages about beside him, and hands over a folded sheet of paper, “That’s the general gist. I take it you’re going to go AWOL for a while as well?”

Goemon hadn’t said as much, but he was surprised at the thief’s accurate guess, “I was planning on going out for some training, yes.”

Lupin nods, then out of nowhere, yawns widely. He clicks his teeth when his mouth shuts, “Do you want a coffee before you go? I’m gonna make one, I’ve been awake for hours.”

He almost says no. But there’s something in the thief’s face that makes him change his mind, “Tea, I will have tea before I go.”

Lupin grins, and claps an arm around his shoulder as they amble towards the kitchen. It is pleasant in the small room, the morning sun warming the benchtops. Goemon listens in comfortable silence as Lupin talks through his plan, making the appropriate noises of assent when required. The tea is good. One of the perks of having Fujiko stay with them is that she shares Goemon’s appreciation for quality tea. Unlike Goemon, she is also willing to leave the house to purchase the quality tea.

Lupin tilts his head as the roar of the helicopter engine reaches them. Goemon looks out the window, from the kitchen they can just make out the hangar at the end of the estate.

“Do you think this truce will last?”

Lupin hums noncommittally, swirling his coffee, “I doubt it. One of them will cross too many lines eventually, we’re lucky to have gotten two days out of them.”

“That’s a shame.”

The thief shrugs, “It is what it is. They _can_ be nice to each other, they’re both just too stubborn.”

“Indeed.”

“That’s not to say I wouldn’t _like_ them to get along, mind you. I just don’t think it’s a realistic goal at the moment.” Lupin swallows the last of his coffee in one mouthful, “If we can make it a month without them burning the house down, we’ll be getting somewhere!”

He turns towards the sink, holding out a hand for Goemon’s now empty mug, “Now, where were you thinking about going for training?”

* * *

Goemon had seen the nature reserve when they’d first arrived, and had been waiting for an excuse to visit it ever since. Now, with the fresh air in his lungs, he was ready to truly appreciate the training opportunity that lay before him.

No matter where he travelled, mountains always filled him with awe, the way they towered above everything else, making even the largest of trees look like child’s toys. He leaps from the ground to a low hanging tree branch, nods his regards to a sleepy looking owl as he passes it, and continues on his path up the mountain.

Before long, he finds himself at the base of a near vertical cliff face, his target high above him. He considers the smooth rock for a moment, before looking back to the tree line – perhaps if he got high enough…

A chorus of bleats distracts him from his musings. From his vantage point near the cliff base he can see the small herd of goats approaching his cliff face. There are about ten of them all up, mostly nannies and kids, the tiny beasts frolicking about while their mothers keep their noses down, looking for green pick.

Goemon watches them for a while, the tiny kids showing remarkable dexterity when it comes to clambering up rocks almost three times their size. One of them, a small grey male, trots over to where Goemon is seated. He sniffs at Zantetsuken curiously, and gives a soft bleat when he butts Goemon’s knee.

“Hello,” Goemon says softly.

The goat looks up at him with big brown eyes. He tries to nibble at Goemon’s hakama. Goemon flicks his hand, startling the animal back a few paces.

“Please don’t do that,” he asks. The goat just looks at him again, before taking a few more cautious steps forward to sniff at the sword once more.

“This is an ancient relic,” he explains, as the little goat continues to sniff the wooden scabbard, giving it an experimental lick before screwing its face up in an almost human-like expression.

“You’re not meant to eat it,” he admonishes gently. The little goat bleats at him disappointedly, and puts its nose down to search for greenery between the rocks.

He looks back up at the cliff face, he’s going to have to find a height advantage from the tree line it seems. There are no discernible handholds that he can see, the rock appears to weathered almost completely smooth. He can see a small outcropping further up, green tufts of grass giving away its jutted-out position. If he can somehow make it there…

The goat’s hooves tap against the rocks as they walk. Goemon’s new friend has moved away, in search of greener pastures. He’s looking up at the same outcropping Goemon was considering. He gives a little bleat, and starts to jump. Goemon watches him as he navigates his way up the cliff face. One of the other kids’ notices, and starts to follow. Somehow, they all manage to climb to the outcropping, bleating excitedly as they get there. Goemon stands and moves forward to inspect the cliff face again. Perhaps it is not as smooth as he initially thought. The little grey goat looks down over the edge of the outcropping and bleats loudly.

Goemon bows, “Thank you for your wisdom, little one.”

With fresh eyes he begins his ascent.

* * *

The top of the mountain is calm and peaceful. There are no sounds bar the rush of the wind and the occasional bird calls. He can see his next training target, much further down, where a waterfall crashes into a steep ravine.

He takes a moment to visualise the plan that Lupin had outlined. With no distractions it was easy to get lost in the details, to fully embrace the complexities that he would need to factor in during the heist itself. The bank itself was not a problem – Lupin had failsafe on top of failsafe to ensure they got _in_. It was getting _out_ , and then making their way to the pickup point at the nearby coastline that was going to be the difficult part.

In his mind he walked the paved streets, imagining the lighting as it would be when they began the heist. Pale streetlamps, moonlight (not much though, the moon was only half-full). There were alleyways that could be used as shortcuts – he found them, and marked them in his minds eye. He followed no less than three separate routes to the ruin of the old fort on the coastline – vaulting over the chain-link fence that separated it from the road.

The cliffside fell away steeply at the edge of the fort. Far below he could make out a thin line of sand. He suspected this would be where Jigen and Fujiko elected to land the helicopter. It was out of the way, and a nearly vertical ascent would bring the aircraft level to the edge of the cliff easily. They would be protected by the ruins of the fort while they made their escape. He checked the other side of the fort just in case – the ground below was covered in rocks – the helicopter would definitely be on the other side then.

A cold chill snakes up his spine, bringing his attention to the forefront of his mind. He looks around, there is no one else there. He stands, brushing the dirt from his hakama. He has ruminated enough on details for now. The waterfall below is calling for Zantetsuken, and his muscles ache to recall the motions of battle.

* * *

Everyone is on edge when Goemon returns, but not in the usual uncomfortable way. Excitement is kicking in. Fujiko isn’t pretending to contain her smiles, Jigen’s insults have almost no barbs in them, and Lupin is practically bouncing off the walls.

The afternoon stretches out, as Lupin packs, and repacks his satchel. Jigen and Fujiko go outside to do last minute checks on the helicopter. Goemon retreats to the roof –partially interested to observe the changed dynamic between the two, partially to ensure that no lasting damage was done if an argument surfaced.

“Do I have to know all of this?” Fujiko’s voice carries through the nearly empty hangar. It’s her teasing tone, Goemon has been on the end of it enough times to recognise it.

Something metal gets dropped and Jigen’s deep voice grunts out, “You want to fly her, you need to learn how to fix her – that’s the rules. Now look here, that’s the connection from the fuel tank to the engine. It’s open at the moment…”

Jigen continues on his lecture, gruffly outlining the potential problems and how to fix them quickly – as well as pointing out the improvements he intends to make after they finish the heist. Fujiko interjects every now and then, and Goemon is pleasantly surprised to find her taking such an interest. When they’ve worked together, she had always opted to borrow machinery rather than use her own, the only exception being her motorcycle – which she treated like a newborn child.

Something else gets thrown and he hears the squeak of trolley wheels, “Pass me the grease, will you?”

Fujiko scoffs, and Jigen grunts – she must have kicked him, “Get out of the way. If I’m going to get my hands dirty I may as well do it myself. Where do you want it?”

“In there, and” a pause, “up there. Cover it good, we’re leaving her in sand. She won’t like that too much. _OI_!”

Fujiko’s giggles carry over the sound of Jigen swearing.

“That’s going to take ages to get out!”

“Whoops!” To the surprise of no-one, she doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Next thing Goemon knows, Fujiko screeches loudly, and there’s a clattering – followed by the sound of rushed footsteps.

Fujiko emerges from the hangar first, hands covered in black mechanical grease, a pair of suspiciously Jigen-sized greasy handprints on each side of her face. Jigen follows shortly after, his pale blue dress shirt sporting a black line down the side that it definitely wasn’t bought with.

“You got it in my hair!” Fujiko yells, but she’s also laughing, and it warms Goemon to see her happy. Jigen is laughing too, clutching his sides as he watches Fujiko try to run her fingers through her hair – she’s only making it worse.

“That’ll teach you, you silly bitch.”

He catches up to her and smears the extra grease she deposited in her hair across her forehead. She pouts at him but he just laughs more.

There’s a noise from inside the house and both Jigen and Fujiko stop, before exchanging the most devious grins Goemon has ever seen on either of them. It chills him, and he worries for Lupin’s safety, and the safety of his clothing. He decides it might be in his best interest to vacate the premises as they start to wander back towards the building. His hypothesis is proved correct when Lupin’s garbled yell reaches him at the far end of the yard.

Goemon is struck suddenly by the idea that perhaps it’s in the best interest of the general public if Jigen and Fujiko continue to have a strained relationship – the two of them co-operating together on a regular basis would be a truly terrifying force.

* * *

Day slides into evening, and the excitement tempers itself into a more manageable form. They bid Fujiko farewell outside the hangar – she’ll be meeting them at the drop zone (Goemon suspects Lupin still doesn’t entirely trust her near the loot) and will be keeping an eye on things outside. Lupin tries unsuccessfully to wrangle a goodbye kiss out of her. Jigen quizzes her on aircraft handling, and finally, just before they leave, she sidles up to Goemon, and squeezes his hand.

“Be safe,” she says quietly, before nudging him towards the other two.

Things start to get tense from there on out. The air shifts as they get closer to the mark. Jigen points out hidden police cars as they make their way slowly but surely towards the bank. Goemon marks the locations in his mind for when they need to make their run. As expected, Lupin’s plan to get them in was a success. A barely used back entrance leads them straight towards their quarry. The few security guards that they did encounter were quickly rendered useless by either Jigen or Goemon. They would be facing heavy penalties tomorrow for allowing themselves to be knocked unconscious.

Jigen and Goemon stand guard while Lupin works his magic in the main safe. Goemon is on high alert, and he can tell Jigen is, also. He hears footsteps, and knows the gunman does too by the way he shifts his weight. Jigen gives him a wry grin and nods towards the door. They take positions on either side of the doorway, waiting until they can tell where the feet are heading.

It becomes abundantly clear as soon as they get closer that these are no security guards. Jigen’s eyes widen under the brim of his hat – Goemon can see the muted surprise from where he’s crouched.

 _‘The mob is here too’_ he mouths silently. Goemon nods in acknowledgement. It does not really concern him which faction the distraction is from – all the mob means, is that he will feel less guilty about using lethal force.

Jigen shoves his revolver back in his belt and cracks his knuckles as the door opens. The two men don’t know what hit them. Goemon barely pays attention as his body goes through the motions to lay the man closest to him in a headlock, compressing his windpipe before he even has a chance to scream. The man Jigen has a hold of struggles for a moment before he suffers a similar fate. Jigen searches them quickly for information but comes up empty. They drag the bodies out of the immediate line of sight and return to their positions – Lupin looks as though he’s nearly halfway done.

Jigen chances a look through one of the windows, and grimaces.

“What is wrong?” Goemon is not a fan of what that grimace might suggest.

Jigen crouches down, away from the windowsill, “That’s the front of the bank – there’s a police barricade, looks like Zenigata is spearheading it. Probably waiting for us to come out, easier than searching through all these rooms.”

Goemon hums, “How many?”

Jigen cranes his neck and has another look, “ten, maybe twenty squad cars. My issue is, if the police are there, where are the mob?”

“Indeed.”

Jigen scratches his head, and Goemon goes back to listening intently. When the gunman finishes his train of thought he’s sure he will speak.

Sure enough, “They’re probably in the side streets. We’ll have to be prepared to split if we need to.”

A muffled bang announces Lupin’s victory over the safe. Not long now.

“You and I are best suited to distract. We can draw their attention, while Lupin disappears in the opposite direction.”

Jigen rubs his beard thoughtfully, “Zenigata will see through it – but he’s the only one I’ll bet. It’s a solid enough gamble.”

They creep back down the hall to where their colleague is busy replacing the jewels with expertly crafted glass copies. Goemon keeps watch while Jigen updates the thief on their plan. After what seems like hours (but in reality, is only minutes), Lupin re-joins them, his satchel hefted over his shoulder.

Jigen pulls out his revolver, and checks the chambers. Lupin reaches into the front pocket of his satchel and pulls out more speed loaders of ammunition, checking them himself before he hands them over to the gunman.

“Ready?” the thief asks, the excitement from earlier is back in his step. He truly lives for this – Goemon realises. This rush is one that he craves.

Goemon nods, and Jigen flips the chamber of his revolver back into place. Lupin places a hand on Jigen’s shoulder and squeezes – it’s almost imperceptible, but Goemon catches the slight twitch at the side of Jigen’s mouth.

Lupin grins, “I’ll see you guys on the other side,” before he draws his own pistol, and starts his journey towards the back of the building.

Goemon catches Jigen’s eye, expecting the bored expression to be back in place. It is, but there’s an undercurrent of something he can’t name. They move back towards the front windows; the decorative ones only have a single layer of glass – easy enough for two men with enough velocity to break through.

Jigen’s hat is tilted back, so Goemon can see his entire expression. He smiles at Goemon, all teeth, and the look punches Goemon back to the very beginning of their acquaintance. It’s easy to forget that Jigen is a dangerous man – until he looks at you in the same way a wolf looks at a small, unsuspecting rabbit.

The gunman reaches into his jacket and shoves a crumpled cigarette between his teeth. He lights it, breathes in deeply and exhales. He readies his weapon, and meets Goemon’s gaze.

“On three?”

Goemon nods.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”


	20. Silence

Glass smashes and all hell breaks loose as the two bodies hit the ground. Goemon lands spread legged like a cat, Jigen rolls through the impact – holding his hat as he does so. There’s a yell that goes up around them as the police realise exactly who has just jumped into their midst. Jigen barks out a laugh as he gets recognised, and Goemon’s hearing fades to black as he prepares to ruin the entirety of their transportation.

Zantetsuken flashes and the police cars are totalled – some of them going so far as to go up in flames. Goemon smiles at his handiwork – and at the astonished expressions on the officers faces when they realise their weapons are useless. Goemon has ended up on the far side of the carpark – he looks back along his path for Jigen. The gunman moves fluidly, Goemon has no idea how he manages to aim with his hat so low – but it seems to work. He empties the revolver, smacks a man in the jaw with the butt of the pistol as he gets too close while he reloads. The man falls to the ground with blood spilling from his mouth – Jigen catches his eye, tips his hat up with the barrel of his gun to grin at him (this grin reaches his eyes) – and Goemon thinks he probably shouldn’t be so attracted to that.

The police that are left with weaponry are scurrying around like rats trying to regroup. Jigen reaches Goemon’s side and grips his arm.

“Let’s go,” he grunts out.

Goemon doesn’t say anything, just nods in agreement. As they expected Zenigata is nowhere to be seen. He probably picked up on the ruse the minute he saw only Jigen and Goemon fall from the windows.

They get to the next street, and have to duck quickly back as gunfire rains down on them. The shots sound different to those they were just dodging from the police, and the grim look on Jigen’s face confirms Goemon suspicion.

“Is there another way?” Jigen mutters, his mouth close to Goemon’s ear.

Goemon shakes his head as he visualises the maps, “This is the quickest. I will go first.”

Jigen sets his jaw and nods. Goemon unsheathes Zantetsuken and prepares to create a bulletproof shield for Jigen to wreak havoc from behind.

The men drop like flies, some from Jigen’s bullets, some from their own turned back against them. With Jigen by his side, Goemon races down the now nearly empty street, ignoring the screech of tyres from the streets behind them. The pavers are slick with blood, Jigen nearly slips once, but regains his footing. The intersection is ahead. With Jigen’s heavy breathing beside him, Goemon’s heart races in his ears.

They make the corner and the long expanse of the boulevard stretches out in front of them. Goemon can make out the ruin at the end of the road. He can hear the low whir of the helicopter. Lupin must have made it.

Zenigata’s car screeches out of a side street in front of them. Jigen’s magnum spits fire and the tyres hiss as air escapes them. The ICPO officer leans out and yells something incomprehensible; Jigen grins wryly and gives him a two-finger salute as they race past the now immobile vehicle.

A door slams and now Zenigata has joined the chase on foot – though who he’s actually trying to reach is a mystery. Goemon notes that they haven’t seen any more gang members, and it makes him uneasy. He knows for a fact that he and Jigen could not have dispatched all of them in that one street – there had to be more.

Goemon clears the chain-link fence with a leap, Jigen uses one of the balustrades to lever himself over it. Zenigata is close behind them now, still yelling. Finally, Goemon catches sight of Lupin and Fujiko, the helicopter is close to being at the right level to board. Lupin’s jacket is blowing haphazardly in the wind, and he turns around, oblivious; throws the satchel up into the belly of the aircraft.

Zenigata overtakes the two of them; he’s fast for an old man. Lupin sees them now and raises a hand in their direction. Zenigata yells – Lupin waves.

They will not all make it to the helicopter in time to climb the ladder Goemon realises. Fujiko is gaining altitude at a rate faster than they anticipated. Lupin will need to start climbing soon, so that he’s far enough up for Jigen to follow. Goemon will jump. He can navigate the rotary blades with ease. He grunts out the plan to Jigen who nods.

Lupin has a hand on the rope ladder when he cocks his head to the side.

_Climb you fool._

He stops. His gaze is drawn to the left, looking where Goemon cannot see, into the ruins themselves. His mouth opens and Goemon can see his eyes widen.

Reality slows to the sluggish speed of molasses. He hears the roar of the engine before he sees the vehicle and knows at once he won’t make it in time to do anything. It’s moving swiftly despite the creeping time around it and in that moment Goemon’s stomach drops through the ground. It’s not a police car, it has to be the mob. They must have assumed this would be a drop zone, and had someone here to start with, waiting in the ruins.

Jigen swears beside him, raises his gun looking for a bead. Goemon already knows he won’t find it, not while they’re still so far away and running – and they can’t afford to stop.

Goemon is no stranger to death. As one of its harbingers, he is quite accustomed to its company.

He’s still not prepared for the sickly loud crunch.

Still not prepared for Fujiko’s shrill scream.

Not prepared to watch the taillights descend over the cliffside – down to where he knows there’s a veritable jawline of sharp rocks, waiting to dole out any damage a fast-moving vehicle may have missed to the unsuspecting thief.

A noise escapes Jigen that doesn’t sound human. Somewhere between a swear, a cry and a scream it gets ripped out of his lungs. He moves faster than Goemon has ever seen and he struggles to keep up.

They make it to the impact zone and Goemon’s focus zero’s in on the pool of blood. Lupin’s blood. He follows the blood splatter marks to edge of the cliff, the safety barriers now torn loose and hanging in the wind. It creaks with an eerie metallic sound and the very notes tear through Goemon’s gut, leaving nothing but shining viscera in their wake. Jigen makes a strangled noise somewhere to his right. He’s looking over the edge of the cliff and Goemon can almost see the cogs in his mind ticking.

“No, JIGEN- “he grabs a fistful of the gunman’s jacket just as he goes to move forward, too far forward. He makes the same strangled noise as he struggles out of his jacket. Goemon is too quick now though, he discards the jacket and pulls Jigen back by his shoulder, ignoring the pained yell.

_“Fuck!”_

Goemon tightens his grip, pulls the gunman bodily to his chest – wrapping his arms around him, even as he continues to struggle.

_“-Goemon, let GO-“_

Goemon has seen the look in Jigen’s eyes before. In other people. At other times. It is the look that precedes a certain descent into madness – one that beckons the wearer to places where no-one can follow. He can’t watch two of his friends die tonight.

Jigen struggles in vain, kicks out with his legs, scratches the parts of Goemon he can reach with blunt nails – the revolver thankfully thrown aside in the scuffle. Goemon tenses every part of himself. Wills his upper body strength to win out over the gunman’s adrenaline.

Jigen’s hat flies off during the tussle, and his hair whips Goemon in the face, stinging his eyes. Finally, he stills. Sinks heavy into Goemon’s chest. Goemon drops to his knees, not willing to relinquish his iron hold until he’s absolutely certain Jigen won’t be going anywhere.

His senses are overwhelmed one by one as time continues to tick slowly, relentlessly onwards. He smells Jigen’s shampoo first, then the sweat, the ash, the gunpowder. He smells the blood on the ground, the salty scent of the ocean. The roar of waves crashing one by one onto the rocks sound as gut-wrenchingly visceral as the short, choked off curses coming from the man in front of him. Heavy footfalls alert him to the presence of the ICPO officer. The man looks as dumbfounded as Goemon feels.

He peers over the edge and turns back with a grimace. Goemon doesn’t want to look. He can already imagine the carnage that awaits them below. It is only the knowledge that he hasn’t yet seen what has become of his friend stopping him from being in a similar state to the gunman currently sagged boneless against his chest.

Zenigata’s lips move but the sound is delayed by second or so. He places a hand gingerly on Goemon’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Jigen freezes in place –the words seem to have flicked a switch inside him. Goemon presses a hand to his chest, he’s so still, to make sure he’s still breathing. Zenigata is still talking, he’s saying something into Goemon’s ear that he can barely make out – half the words don’t make sense.

_Something about backup – and that Goemon and Jigen and Fujiko need to leave NOW or he’s going to have to arrest them, and he doesn’t really want to do that when they’ve just witnessed their friend die and then it hits Goemon. It hits him that Zenigata, in his own way cares too – because he’s chased them across continents for the last 6 months and he probably knows the thieves better than he knows his own family now. He’s giving them an out – just this once, because he thinks they deserve it and Goemon can’t help but feel a begrudging respect start to form for the old officer._

As Zenigata’s footsteps get further away, Jigen moves against Goemon’s arms.

“Let me up.”

“Jigen, I-“

“Let me the fuck up Goemon.”

Goemon releases him, watching carefully, ready to move in an instant. He doesn’t need to. Jigen collects his hat first, then his gun, then finally his jacket. He shrugs back into the garment, not bothering to tuck his dress shirt in as he does so. The fabric flaps haphazardly in the wind as Fujiko brings the helicopter level with the cliff edge again.

* * *

Gone.

The word rattles around Jigen’s mind in the same way the dust rattled around the house in Europe when they first opened it up, so many months ago – only this time, there’s no bright sunshine to float through the windows, to catch the particles in their grasp - there is only a dark void. The heavy crash of the waves. The roar of the helicopter engine.

Jigen can still feel where Goemon’s fingers dug into his biceps, holding him in place. Can feel the scratch marks on his back where he grabbed at his jacket, then his shirt, and for what reason?

To keep him alive?

Jigen hates him in that moment.

Goemon of all people should have understood. He was a man of duty – of honour – supposedly. Jigen had one job on his contract ( _protect the boss_ ) – and he had just failed it. And it stung, more than any of his previous failings combined ( _which is quite a few, he keeps a running tally_ ).

He nudges Fujiko out of the way and takes his place in the pilot’s seat. She collapses beside him, tear tracks running down her face as he lifts the aircraft to a higher altitude. He would have immediately rounded on her, suspecting foul play – but that scream was too real. This wasn’t her doing.

He doesn’t look at her. Can’t. He senses movement in his periphery. Goemon moves into her space, puts an arm around her. When did the samurai become the team comforter?

When the actual team comforter became nothing more than a pile of broken muscle and sinew at the bottom of a cliff face. Jigen feels a creeping nausea by the time he lands at the hangar. It doesn’t leave when they exit the helicopter. Instead, it seeps into his bones, into his marrow, into the very centre of his being.

* * *

Zenigata tracks them down – looks like he _can_ do his job when he wants to. He turns a blind eye to the stolen goods in the entryway and hands Fujiko a card for a morgue and a funeral home.

“He deserves that much at least,” he says, and then with a tip of his hat and a swish of his coat he’s gone, and Fujiko is crying again.

Jigen suspects he’s going to have to rethink his initial perception of the man.

* * *

The funeral is small. Fujiko cries enough for the three of them. If Goemon sheds a tear, he doesn’t do it in their immediate company, and for that, Jigen is eternally grateful. If the samurai had teared up, there would have been no hope for him, even in his emotionally numbed state. The damn would have broken unequivocally. Zenigata shows up five minutes late in a black suit, with his hat to his chest, and doesn’t mention arrest once. Lupin must have made quite the impression on the old officer.

The priest is good. The few words he does say are meaningful, and to the point. They stay long enough to see the headstone put in place, and by that point, Jigen has to leave. He can’t stay. Can’t stay in the cemetery, while the sun shines down brilliantly on the grass as Lupin gets covered with dank, dark, dirt. It’s unfair, that Lupin, so full of life, should be the one six-feet under, when Jigen has abused his body to the point of no return at least four times over. He should be the one, being crushed by the sheer weight of topsoil. Six feet of dirt would have been light as a feather, compared to the weight of his bad decisions that he’s made over the course of his life.

And perhaps most the most damning thing of all, the thing that weighs most heavily on his mind as he takes one last moment alone at the too-bright headstone, is that he was too late…once again. When he turns his back at last, its with a sigh of regret for Swiss confessions that will never see the light of day – armed with the painful knowledge that if he’d just picked up his act a little sooner, maybe that wouldn’t have been the case.

Another sharp reminder to add to his briefcase of mistakes he’s made over the years of his life.

* * *

When they get back to the house, Jigen forgoes any attempt at civility and drinks his bourbon straight from the bottle. He can see the concern in Goemon’s eyes, but dismisses it the way only a truly desperate man can. And right now, Jigen is desperate. Desperate enough to drown himself, to numb himself down to barest essentials. Desperate to forget.

If there had been no body – he could have chalked it up to one of Lupin’s tricks, albeit a pretty terrible one. But there had been a body. The same body they’d identified and buried. The same body that once held the sparkling soul of a thief who was larger than life in every aspect.

By the eighth swig of the bottle Jigen is ready to take on a God he doesn’t believe in; who thought it was reasonable to snuff out a life like Lupin’s so early. It was wholly unjust for the thief to waltz into Jigen’s life – bringing with him a veritable ray of sunshine, to light up corners of the gunman that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. To drag him kicking and screaming out of his dull routine, to show him wonders and excitement; only for him to be ripped away without so much as a goodbye.

By the twelfth swig Jigen knows in his heart of hearts that his despair comes from his own regrets. He had known all along that he was courting danger with the eccentric thief. Had known from the start that he was walking into a minefield when he didn’t leave, the instant he started getting attached. Somehow, the knowledge that he is at least partially at fault only serves to numb him more.

The bottle is basically empty when Jigen’s vision starts to blur around the edges. The last few fingers sit at the bottom, taunting him, and that simply won’t do. He can feel Goemon’s steady presence near him, he’s probably sitting on the floor somewhere, and he can smell the suffocating, cloying scent of Fujiko’s perfume. Nausea rocks through him as he swallows the last of the alcohol. Neither Goemon or Fujiko have made an effort to stop him he realises. Perhaps they too, feel that it’s for the best if he’s passed out beyond waking tonight.

If he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, he could fall asleep here, on this sofa. He might wake up with a sore back, but in the grand scheme of things, muscle pain is something he’d gladly take. The sofa shifts beside him and hears Goemon’s hoarse voice for the first time in hours.

“We should go to bed, Jigen.”

He doesn’t bother nodding; he hasn’t got the energy. Hell, he’s barely hearing the words. Goemon’s breath ghosts against his cheek and it smells like tobacco.

“Y’been smoking?” he asks, as the samurai slides a strong arm around his waist, pulling him into a sitting position.

Goemon doesn’t answer, and soon enough he feels another arm around him, smaller, feminine. His head lolls, his neck muscles refusing to comply with any orders they’ve been given. Fujiko smells like tobacco too. Tobacco, and wine. They make it to a bedroom. Jigen doesn’t know who’s it is. He toes off his shoes, untucks his shirt; this is a dance he’s intimately familiar with – although he hasn’t done it this drunk in a long time.

Goemon is a blur in front of him, he can make out the pleats in his hakama but that’s it. Fujiko is still somewhere, her perfume tickling his nose in a way Lupin’s cologne never did.

At the thought of the thief his chest clenches. He rubs it, half expecting there to be a hollow hole in the middle. That’s what it feels like. He gets manhandled into the centre of the bed, he pokes Goemon in the side when he sits down.

“What are you doin?”

The samurai fixes him with a hard stare, “We have all lost someone dear to us. No one should be alone tonight.”

“Wha-“

The other side of the bed dips and he realises Fujiko has slipped under the covers on his other side.

Goemon stands, and pulls the comforter up over the two of them, “I will return shortly.”

Jigen opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it when he sees Goemon’s mouth close into a thin line.

The door clicks as Goemon leaves and Jigen rolls onto his back. Fujiko radiates warmth at his side, curled into a ball already.

“Hey,” he says with only slightly less bluntness than he normally employs with Fujiko.

She looks up at him, hair mussed, and makeup running. She must have hit the wine hard as well, if she hasn’t even bothered to clean up before collapsing.

“You okay?” he asks, because it’s just the two of them now, and Goemon doesn’t have to know that he _is_ capable of being nice to Fujiko when he wants to – it’s just not very often that he _wants_ to. Tonight, is a special case. Tonight, is _the_ special case.

She shakes her head, and as she does so he can see the tears at the edges of her eyes, leaking down the already stained tracks on her cheeks. She takes a long shuddering breath, squeezes her eyes shut.

“Are you?”

As if she didn’t know the answer to that question already.

“No,” he says lowly, and the very admission guts him. He closes his eyes because if water happens to leak out from under his eyelids while they’re shut, then it’s not technically crying. Because Jigen isn’t going to cry. Because he hasn’t cried for years, not for himself, not for anyone. He’s not going to start now.

Goemon returns as promised. He slips under the covers fluidly, and without even asking for permission, wraps an arm loosely around Jigen, slotting his face against his shoulder. Fujiko soon follows suit, and Jigen’s chest finds itself home to both Goemon and Fujiko’s linked fingers. It should feel suffocating, with the samurai curled around him on one side, and Fujiko pressed against him on the other, but it doesn’t. It feels soothing, and even in his incredibly drunken state; that scares Jigen in a way that staring down the barrel of a firearm never did.

When he wakes up hours later, the room is still pitch black, but for the lone street lamp. Goemon is still wrapped around him like a koala, and Fujiko is using his chest as a pillow. His shoulders ache from the position they’d been in, holding his hands under his neck. He briefly considers moving, shoving the other two off; and leaving them to cuddle each other. His thoughts are put on hold when Goemon shifts beside him, and tilts his head up into his neck. A hand slides under his shirt and stills against his diaphragm.

“ _No one should be alone tonight_ ” Goemon had said.

Leave it to the samurai to be the voice of reason. When he places a hand gingerly around Goemon’s shoulders, he mumbles something incoherent into his neck. It’s endearing, and the image tugs at Jigen’s heartstrings.

He watches his two colleagues sleeping forms for a few more minutes, until bone deep fatigue and the inevitable hangover takes him over. He will miss them, even Fujiko, though he won’t be admitting that out loud.

He doubts he will be admitting much out loud after this at all.

* * *

When Goemon wakes up, its Fujiko beside him, not Jigen. The empty portion of the bed is cool, and he knows then and there that Jigen has left them. He moves swiftly to the kitchen, not that he’s really expecting anyone to be there. A single mug has been washed and is sitting on the bench drying, there’s a folded piece of paper underneath it.

When Goemon unfolds it, another piece falls out. He opens them. Both notes are identical, written in the same long italics. A phone number; and underneath that – _for emergencies_.

Fujiko comes up behind him, and looks at the paper, speechless. For half a moment, Goemon is worried she’s going to start crying again. Not that he would blame her. He certainly feels like he’s lost two people instead of just the one and the realisation aches like a punch to the gut. He does a once over of the house. Sure enough – the only item left is the blue shirt with the grease mark on it, lying haphazardly on the sink in the bathroom; obviously only left when it became clear it was going to be too much effort to clean in a short amount of time. Everything else that marked the presence of a third person – is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Don't say I never do nothin' for you. 
> 
> Thanks to y'all for sticking with me until this point. The next arc (there will be another arc) is well underway, and will be revisited as I said before, in a little while. Until then - Enjoy!
> 
> Also (and I really don't want to sound pretentious or anything, but I know I have super anxiety about communication so this is like, my attempt at subverting that for people who are also like me) - if you're a content creator and want to like, I don't know, draw shit, make shit, based on this - you don't have to ask me - just go ham mate. And tag me on tumblr or leave me a link in the comments - I'll legit just be chuffed.


	21. Picking up the pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: we're back baaaabbyyyyy!

Fujiko cries more than Goemon anticipates. She doesn’t say _who_ she’s crying for, but he suspects it doesn’t matter. It won’t change the fact that the two men are gone – and Fujiko is filled with guilt and grief that she doesn’t know how to handle for both of them.

Goemon doesn’t cry. It isn’t something he needs to do. He finds solace in the nature reserve – where the silence drowns out all but the loudest of his thoughts – the wind and the isolation at the top of the now familiar cliff face warmly offering to batter his overactive mind into submission.

The rough surface of the cliff sends sharp lances of pain through his fingers as he climbs. The sensation lends him purpose, and the sun beats down on his neck as he closes his eyes to meditate.

Something butts against his knee and breaks him out of his reverie. He has Zantetsuken drawn and ready to strike through muscle memory alone before he realises the true nature of the intruder. The little grey goat bleats at him once, before nosing forward to sniff at the fabric of his hakama as though it remembers him from somewhere – but can’t quite place it.

Goemon berates himself savagely – he needs to be more aware – he would never have forgiven himself had he harmed the small animal. His new friend folds its legs underneath itself, settling down in the grass close to Goemon’s legs – evidently deciding the samurai is no threat. Goemon re-sheathes Zantetsuken with a loud click.

“You are too trusting,” Goemon says softly; the goat turns its head towards the noise. “Be careful, or it will be your undoing.”

If the goat understands, it makes no attempt to confirm or deny his accusations. Goemon sighs, his friend closes its eyes, basking in the sunlight.

“I do not trust easily, yet I fear despite this, I have still been made a fool of.”

He should feel juvenile, talking to an animal; but he doesn’t. Verbalising the words seems to shift something in his chest, a heaviness he hadn’t realised was weighing him down.

“We were complacent,” he explains, “comfortable. It was our undoing – we did not factor in all the potentials. And we – “

He stops. Pauses for a moment, trying to articulate.

“I was not quick enough. Jigen could not have made the moving shot without a rifle, he didn’t have the range. But I could have. If only I was faster, more aware of my surroundings.”

His eyes scratch and he rubs at them absently.

“And now, Lupin is dead, Jigen is gone, Fujiko feels guilty for both of them, and I – I am sitting on a raft in the middle of a river with no pole to guide me. I failed in my task to protect. I was not skilled enough – or perhaps, I was merely distracted. A distracted weapon that was of no use to anyone when they needed it the most.”

The goat stares at him. The heaviness in his chest has lifted slightly, it doesn’t hurt quite as much to breathe now.

“I don’t blame Jigen for leaving. It would have been hard for him to stay. “

The memory of having to hold a struggling gunman down is still fresh – still stings.

“He cared you see, more than he let on.”

The emptiness starts to gnaw its way back into Goemon’s chest, hollowing out its home. The little goat blinks slowly at him, the light of the sun reflecting brightly in its dark square pupils.

“I cared too, for all of them. Perhaps that was my undoing.”

_A low chuckle joins Lupin’s laugh and the mixed melody reaches Goemon on the roof. His chest feels warm -tight. A door slams and a high giggle joins the laughter. Goemon knows loyalty, and he knows this runs deeper. He knows of friends and friendships, but these people are more than just friends – more than just temporary colleagues. These people aren’t passing ships in the night, they’ve become rocks on the shoreline of his life. These are people he would kill for – people he would die for without question. He’s known them for just over a year but it feels like a lifetime or more – perhaps it has been. If he was being nostalgic – Goemon would say that accepting Fujiko’s job offer so many months ago, was the best decision he’d ever made in this life._

Nostalgia doesn’t bring people back though.

Nostalgia doesn’t bring back the distinctive mix of cigarette smoke and cologne that follows Jigen wherever he goes.

Nostalgia won’t put the thief back in front of him, cross-legged, leaning forwards on his elbows as he talks animatedly – half with his mouth, half with his hands.

Nostalgia doesn’t dry the tears Fujiko tried to hide when she scrubbed the grease stain out of Jigen’s blue shirt, as she carefully ironed it and hung it up in the closet. Didn’t ease her visible sorrow as she packed up maps and books littered with distinct italic script; tiny faces doodled in the corners of pages.

Nostalgia does nothing to seal the fissure in Goemon’s chest. The fissure that has been straining and fighting to open – to force him to _feel,_ because Goemon keeps his emotions locked up tight until he decides to free them to dissect them, or until they overflow. And they overflow now. Raw pain leaks from under the tightly closed lid, like the sting of lacrimation under his eyelids.

The little grey goat bleats sadly when Goemon stands swiftly and starts his rapid descent towards the waterfall. The plaintive cry echoes down after him. Echoes the cry of his own heart as he lands feet first under the crushing force of water. Foam and spray beat down with the ferocity of a thunderstorm and for the time since the heist, Goemon allows himself to _breathe_.

The fissure splits wide open and for the first time since the heist, Goemon allows himself to _grieve_.

* * *

Lupin had organised a fence for the jewels before the heist, so it was easy enough to unload them once they’d found the contact – an heiress with more money than sense. Goemon felt quietly proud of Fujiko’s restraint when the insufferable woman started asking why the ‘Great Lupin the Third’ was sending lackeys to do his dirty work. He would have cut her throat where she stood had he been alone. He was still tempted despite the presence of armed guards.

She hands over the money after inspecting the jewels and promptly starts to ignore them. The security guard shrugs and gestures towards the door, and that’s how Goemon finds himself in an empty house, with Fujiko, a duffel bag full of cash and no real direction for where to go next.

“We should try and contact Jigen,” Fujiko says eventually, “See if he wants his share.”

Somehow Goemon highly doubts that would be the case, but it was worth a try – and part of him ached to hear the gunman’s voice, to assure himself that even though he was gone of his own volition, he was still alive.

Jigen answers after the fourth ring, voice scratchy as though he’d just woken up.

“Is this an emergency?” he says gruffly.

“It is a business call - of sorts.”

Goemon doesn’t trust Jigen to not hang up on him if he admits this is more of a social call than a business one. Static silence echoes between them for a moment, then Goemon hears something rustle and the tell-tale click of a lighter. Jigen’s sigh filters down the line, saying more than his gruff words ever could.

“Well?”

The open duffel bag sits tauntingly in Goemon’s periphery.

“We have the profits from the collection. We were wondering how you wanted to receive – “

Jigen swears dully and coughs, “fucking keep it.”

“But- “

“I don’t want it Goemon. Keep it.”

Goemon paused. The conversation was going to be much shorter than he had hoped.

“Is that all?” Goemon can pick up the undercurrent of impatience in the gunman’s tone, and he wonders if he’d actually woken him up.”

“Where are you?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Jigen grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘business call my ass.” He coughs again and clears his throat.

“It doesn’t matter where I am, and its none of your business. Now if that’s all?”

Goemon starts to say it is, but then he stops, “Are you okay?”

Once more, Jigen’s silence says more than his words.

“Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He’s lying. Goemon can’t see his face, but there’s no way that optimism isn’t faked for the benefit of the phone call.

“Losing a comrade, a friend – it is difficult.”

Jigen laughs and the noise sounds hauntingly hollow, “Lupin isn’t the first friend I’ve seen die – but hopefully he’ll be the last.”

Something pricks at Goemon’s awareness. This whole conversation is making him uneasy, Jigen’s words sounding familiar in a way he hopes they aren’t.

“Jigen, you aren’t planning to commit– “

Jigen cuts him off swiftly, “No, don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to off myself.”

Goemon lets out a shakily held breath, still not feeling any better about the conversation at hand. Jigen clears his throat again before speaking.

“I’m gonna do one better. I’m going to retire.”

Goemon wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

* * *

“Let’s leave now,” Fujiko says one morning, looking dejectedly around the living room. She’d cleaned up as much as she could, with Goemon’s help – but there was little either of them could do with the remaining belongings. To stay in one place was to stagnate – and already Goemon could feel the smooth coils of stasis threatening to wind around his ankles the longer they stayed in Italy.

He agrees with no argument.

They lock the door and leave the key in its spot in the guttering. Goemon doesn’t even bother to ask where they’re going until they reach the airport. It makes no difference to him. He just doesn’t want to go back to Japan to train yet. The idea of practice and reflection so soon after his failures feels like salt in the wound. He will have to face the dojo eventually – but he will do so on his own terms.

They’re on a plane bound for America when he finally asks Fujiko what her plans are. She’d left her tears in Italy – the face she wears now is her old one. The shrewd businesswoman just waiting for her unsuspecting victim to trip up. She looks up to the overhead locker – where the duffel bag has been placed underneath the rest of their carry-on luggage as though she’s worried it might suddenly disappear.

“I think,” she says, her voice hard with determination, “It’s time for me to cut loose some old colleagues who have outlived their usefulness to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: short one this one - I've gotta get back in the swing of things and I struggled something chronic to get this chapter onto paper. Nevertheless I hope you enjoyed the update!


	22. Unravelling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter has mentions of past abuse/implied unhealthy relationships

Grieving is a process, and recovery for Goemon and Fujiko is non-linear, to say the least.

Fujiko’s re-entry to white collar crime in America is subdued. Goemon returns to his previous position of bodyguard and it feels as though they’ve gone back in time. Stakeouts are replaced with standing guard by locked doors as Fujiko uses every trick she knows to squeeze herself into high class organisations with the express intent of bleeding them dry.

Dinners at poky middle-class cafés are replaced with fancy restaurants. The dedication to Japanese cuisine is better, but there are times when Goemon misses the cheap noodles Jigen used to buy as a joke when Lupin would bemoan the lack of variety in their food.

Once Fujiko cried the last of her tears, she throws herself back into her work with a gusto – and to talk to her, one wouldn’t have even guessed that less than two months prior she’d lost two close friends – violently at that. She grieved, and she moved on, and that was that.

Goemon’s process is decidedly less straightforward. It was as though he was in a constant whirlwind, with no control of where his emotions would crash next. It was now commonplace for him to retreat to the solitary confinement of his own room in the apartment to meditate, much to Fujiko’s visible dismay – but Goemon could not yet find the words to verbally explain why he felt the way he did.

At heart, he knows why.

Guilt is a powerful motivator.

It doesn’t help matters that something is brewing, between them. Goemon can feel it – can almost see the visible tension in the air as they teeter dangerously between _‘now_ ’ and ‘ _then_ ’ – neither willing to make a move – to disrupt the comfortable bubble that surrounds the apartment.

It had been a long few months – and there were times when Goemon himself wondered if his desire had waned through simple neglect. Looking at Fujiko now though, as she finishes her preparations for her afternoon meeting, it was clear that was not the case. She was as beautiful as ever. As alluring in her carefully tailored suit as she was in her motorcycle leathers. She brushes her hair over her shoulder carelessly. It has been too long since Goemon has last tangled his fingers in the smooth tresses. Too long since they’ve touched for more than a casual embrace. There was nothing but guilt and grief to blame for that.

_Grief and guilt that were slowly easing, releasing their iron hold, making room for other emotions, some new –_

Fujiko’s smile is self-assured and radiant as she pops the top button of the business shirt. When she winks at him, Goemon feels uncannily like a deer in the headlights.

_-some old, and familiar._

Goemon has the briefcase. Inside is close to a million U.S dollars. He passes it across to Fujiko and it completes the picture flawlessly.

Fujiko blows him a kiss after checking her reflection in the window. His cheeks burn, but it is a welcome flame after the weeks of cold, cold ice. His femme fatale is back, and with her tailored suit, doe eyes and briefcase – it’s time to go and pick a fight.

* * *

The security guards buzz them into the building smug expressions. They leer at Fujiko as she walks past, but she ignores them, so Goemon does too. Fujiko hadn’t disclosed exactly what type of meeting this afternoon was going to be – but judging by the familiarity of the guards, Goemon has a hunch.

Franklin Shaw was not a young man. He had to be close to sixty. His hairline was close to non-existent, although he appeared to be trying to make up for it with his moustache. His small stature and wiry build remind Goemon of a particularly unpleasant rodent. He was no physical threat himself; he was the kind of person who got other people to do his dirty work for him. His guards on the other hand –

Fujiko leans over the desk and Goemon watches with vicious pride as she spins the unfortunate man in front right into the corner where she wants him with her honeyed words. It was all going to plan. Until it wasn’t.

“Come here,” Shaw says, patting his knee as though Fujiko was nothing more than an unruly child.

Ever the opportunist, Fujiko obliged – likely hoping to hoping to exploit the change in atmosphere. As soon as she sat however, Goemon recognised the error – but it was too late.

A large hand squeezes Fujiko’s thigh and she winces. A minor miscalculation, but now Shaw had the upper hand.

“While I appreciate the effort, you don’t have to bring our arrangement to a halt so soon Ms Mine. Especially since its been _so long_ since our last meeting.”

Shaw’s accent was hard to decipher – after weeks of conversing only in Japanese with Fujiko, the English sounds thick and nasally to Goemon’s ears.

“I don’t have to, but I would like to.” Fujiko snaps back primly. She nods towards the briefcase on the desk, “The full amount is there.”

Shaw’s hands continue to wander, as though there is no-one else in the room. As they make their way higher, so too does Goemon’s base urge to separate them from the rest of him. Distaste for the man boils in his gut as he leans in and sniffs at Fujiko’s neck.

“And the – “one of the hands finds purchase directly over Fujiko’s crotch and it is only a sharp glare from Fujiko herself in Goemon’s direction that saves the mans fingers.

“-interest?”

Fujiko picks up the offending hand delicately, holding it between them. She links their fingers together and digs her manicured nails into the soft skin. Shaw winces, and when she places the hand onto the table Goemon can clearly see the red half-moon’s in the pasty flesh. He fights back a smile.

“It’s there too.”

She stands gracefully and smooths out her jacket. Shaw follows her movements with an ugly expression. His lips curl into a sneer as she makes her way to the opposite side of the desk.

“Your father will be very disappointed that our arrangement has come to an end.”

Fujiko falters. She swallows and straightens her back, turning her body to face Shaw completely. Goemon tenses, ready to draw his sword in an instant. He doesn’t need to.

“A shame, to be sure.” With one movement, Fujiko shoves the briefcase roughly across the desk. It lands against Shaw’s stomach with a soft thud, winding him. She doesn’t look at him long enough to see if he’s okay. With a nod in Goemon’s direction she moves towards the door. When she speaks she doesn’t even look back.

“I don’t care though. Goodbye Uncle.”

Goemon follows her out of the building in silence. Even if he hadn’t desired her before, he certainly would have after that display. She walks out of the building with her head held high, and in the afternoon sun she’s never looked quite so beautiful. She catches his eye and when she smiles, she looks so disarmingly breathtaking that Goemon aches to pull her into his arms then and there.

The storm between them is brewing. It’s been brewing for days, weeks, months. And now, in the distance, Goemon can hear the distinct rumble of thunder, _as her the back of her hand brushes against his; once, twice, until finally she links her pinkie finger in his_ – heralding the oncoming rain.

* * *

By the time they get back to the apartment, Goemon could cut the tension in the air with a single swing of his sword. Fujiko returns after getting changed with two glasses of wine and presses one into his hand before she settles down cross-legged beside him on the sofa.

A clink and a ‘ _kanpai_ ’ later, the wine prickles the back of his throat as he swallows.

Goemon is the first to speak.

“That was, one of your webs?”

Fujiko nods, the wine colouring the tops of her cheeks just barely, “He was the first to arrive, he had to be the first to leave. He – “

She pauses, and a shadow of something crosses over her face.

“-I was very young.” She finishes softly, and drains the rest of her glass without elaborating.

There’s no point pressing. Goemon already has a small idea of the type of family Fujiko comes from, and he can only imagine the calibre of family friends present who would later become _uncles_. She doesn’t need to elaborate; he is well aware of what goes on in those situations and his dislike for the man they’d left in the office only deepens.

Fujiko won’t ask for more help and that’s perfectly fine. But Franklin Shaw has a distinctive face, and Goemon has a long memory – so he files away the moustache and the wrongdoings for a later date. A date when he’s no longer bound by an agreement to refrain from interfering.

“Thank you, for coming with me.”

She sounds uncertain and Goemon huffs in response as he sips. She doesn’t need to thank him; he would have gone regardless. When he turns his head, she’s observing him over the rim of her glass. He raises an eyebrow when she doesn’t look away.

“You look like you’re thinking,” she says, shuffling so she’s facing him, her chin resting delicately on her elbows.

“You are, not incorrect,” he acquiesces.

“What are you thinking about?”

Wine. Fujiko. Franklin Shaw at the edge of Zantetsuken. Jigen. Lupin…

“It is just us now,” he says, feeling a stab of remorse when Fujiko’s smile gets replaced by a small frown.

She hums and swishes the wine in her glass, looking at it with a severe expression, “It was just us before too…”

“You know what I mean.”

She does. She sighs and her shoulder sag down, “I know. You miss them.”

“Sometimes, I think,” the wine is succeeding in loosening his tongue, “Sometimes I think that it would have been less cruel had we never met Lupin or Jigen.”

Fujiko shuffles forward and places a hand on his thigh. She squeezes, he can feel the tips of her fingers digging gently into the muscle.

“Maybe, but you gained a lot by meeting them as well.”

Goemon doesn’t miss the fact that Fujiko leaves herself out of the equation, “As did you, you mustn’t forget.”

Fujiko shakes her head, then lowers her gaze to her lap, “I did. But I won’t deny that I also made mistakes.”

_Guilt is a powerful motivator._

Goemon covers her hand with his own, tracing the curves of her fingers as they lie still against his thigh. She doesn’t move, doesn’t offer any more words. He runs the pad of his thumb over a knuckle while he tries to articulate the appropriate words for the situation. Not for the first time, he laments his ability to speak his mind clearly.

“Mistakes,” he begins, and is pleased to see Fujiko looking up at him through her hair, “are merely lessons you have yet to master. So long as you have learned, and work to improve.”

She nods, and turns her hand under his, linking their fingers together. Before his partnership with Fujiko, Goemon had never understood the fascination with joined hands, had never understood how so much communication could occur with so little.

“I am _trying_ ,” she says, with a barely noticeable tremor in her voice. She flexes her fingers in his, as if to test the strength of his grip.

“I know.”

He does know. He can see the fruits of her labour – he witnessed the culmination of her efforts today. She _is_ trying, and he is so very proud of her for that. Her eyes go wide when he leans forward and brushes her fringe aside with his free hand. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s able to press a soft kiss to her forehead, a small memory of earlier times, when there was both more distance and less at the same time between them.

“I know,” he says again, lips barely moving against the skin of her forehead, “I know.”

When he leans back, he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. All he needs is a single gust of wind to unbalance him. Fujiko clears her throat and places her wine glass beside his on the coffee table. When she speaks, the tremor is gone.

“Goemon,” she says his name like a question, echoes his words from earlier, “It’s just us now.”

He is dangerously close to falling. Ruddy cheeks and red lips are beckoning him closer, and closer. Fujiko sits up on her knees, and starts to move. She doesn’t let go of his hand, and with every small movement she pauses – giving him a chance to stop her, like he has so many times before.

Not this time though.

He is done balancing precariously on the edge of the unknown.

His free hand lands on her hip as she straddles his lap. No longer in her tailored suit, but her usual skirt and shirt. Her skin is warm under his fingers when they slide between the layers of cotton, before running up her frame, to tangle in her hair. From this position, she’s higher than him, and when he gazes up at her, she looks almost as nervous as he feels.

He lifts the hand still holding his own and starts to untangle his fingers, stopping halfway to bring the hand to his lips. He kisses a knuckle, and feels a shudder as Fujiko supresses a small giggle at the sensation.

“It is,” he murmurs against her hand, “just us now.”

He kisses a second knuckle and raises his eyes. Fujiko is worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and she’s flushed the whole way down her neck as he continues his way methodically across the rest of her hand. By the time he reaches the last finger he’s almost worried for the state of her lip. Almost.

“Are we,” she pauses; suddenly visibly nervous, and wets her lips quickly, “we’re doing this?”

He hums against her palm in assent, and her thumb rubs softly against his cheek. His fingers tangle further into her hair as she leans forward, into his space.

“Fujiko,” he has to tell her now, before they go any further, because if he doesn’t do it now, he won’t.

“Today, you were,” he presses a kiss to her palm and places her hand on his shoulder. He reaches up and she leans down to meet him. He kisses the corner of her mouth and he can feel her suck in a quick breath at the brief contact.

“-absolutely breathtaking.”

She doesn’t move. He leans back to see her gazing at him with an odd expression. She looks mildly shocked at the blunt compliment; her fingers squeeze into his shoulder as she opens her mouth to reply and closes it again. Her lips curve up into a shy smile that seems out of place on her face.

“Really?”

“Really,” Goemon confirms, and then he’s done with talking.

It doesn’t even take a full gentle tug to bring Fujiko back to him. Her lips are warm against his. With one hand in her hair and the other on her hip, he feels as though he could kiss her for hours. When she parts her mouth just enough to slide her tongue against his lips, it ignites the smouldering heat in his gut that he’s been ignoring of late. She moans softly as he pulls her more solidly against his frame, and just like that – with one small sound, any doubts he has about his decisions are quashed.

Just like Fujiko’s webs – Goemon unravels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> -I am so, so sorry for what I'm putting these characters through.  
> -I'm not gonna lie, from hereon out (give or take a few chapters), we're going to get dark. I'll be updating tags as required and putting authors notes at the top of the chapters, so just keep an eye on 'em


	23. Enter: An old Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bumping up the rating of this fic to Mature - because we're going to be delving into some heavy themes. I'll keep the tags updated and add authors warnings at the beginnings of chapters.

Goemon is as surprised as Fujiko is when they catch sight of a very familiar trench coat and the end of their street. Fujiko ducks into a side street, dragging Goemon with her, before peering out at the disappearing body of one Inspector Zenigata – far from home on the streets of New York.

When Fujiko takes her leave, Goemon takes the chance to tail the unsuspecting Inspector.

He wanders aimlessly from street to street, stopping in at small stores, chatting to the newspaper merchants on the roadside with their carts. He looks no different to when Goemon last saw him. He still has his same determined expression, his dark eyes roam from building to building – looking for something, as he partakes in casual small talk.

His routine doesn’t differ much for the rest of the afternoon, but the opportunity to utilise his stealth skills is too good to pass up – so Goemon continues to follow him, as much for practice as for the familiarity. Or so he tells himself.

He catches himself off guard when Zenigata’s eyes slide across his hiding spot once or twice over the course of the afternoon, but he doubts his cover is blown. The inspector is _good_ , but he’s not _that good_. It’s an interesting way to take in New York from a new perspective, Goemon muses, as they make their way from Harlem, into the streets of downtown Brooklyn, until they reach the ocean, and then they can travel no further.

Zenigata disappears into a coffee shop, no doubt to acquire another newspaper and to make idle small talk with the cashier. Goemon considers leaving him, but he is surprised when the Inspector exits the shop in record time, with a takeaway cup in each hand.

Is he meeting someone? A colleague? Family?

No, they were in Japan, they wouldn’t be here unless they were on holiday – and the good inspector certainly didn’t appear to be in holiday mode.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he tails slightly behind the inspector as he makes his way towards the boardwalk. Goemon balks, he’s going to run out of cover, there are no more trees. He searches the buildings around him, surely there is somewhere he can –

A gruff voice reaches him. He would have paid it no mind, parsing it off as merely a local speaking too loudly, too closely, but he doesn’t. Because, the gruff voice reaches him, and it takes him a moment too long to realise that the words are not English. They are Japanese.

Maybe the Inspector is better at his job than Goemon gives him credit for.

“I’m not here for you,” Zenigata says, too loudly to be talking to himself. He doesn’t look in Goemon’s direction – he doesn’t know where he is, he’s just assuming that the samurai is still tailing him.

“If you’re still here, you may as well come out,” he continues on gruffly, “I’ve bought you some tea after all. You probably need it, tailing me all afternoon.”

Goemon drops silently from the tree he had been in. To his credit, Zenigata doesn’t even flinch. He holds out the takeaway cup as Goemon takes the few steps to bring them level. It’s still steaming hot and he can just make out the teabag, still hanging from under the lid. He takes the cup with a small nod, and a wary look. Up close Zenigata looks tired. He’s got some dark circles under his eyes that definitely weren’t there before.

“Let’s walk,” the inspector says, and starts to move before Goemon approves or disproves his suggestion. He doesn’t seem to care if Goemon wants to speak or not.

They continue to walk, with no visible purpose until Zenigata finds a bench he deems appropriate. He sits down heavily, and pats the wood beside him. Goemon sits and watches as he digs around the inside of his trench coat. He pulls out a cigarette and a lighter, and for a moment Goemon is starkly reminded of their other mutual acquaintance. He hasn’t spoken to Jigen since he refused the profits of the original heist months ago.

Not comfortable with the turn his thoughts are taking, Goemon speaks. If Zenigata is surprised to hear his voice, he doesn’t show it.

“When did you realise I was following you?”

Zenigata shoves his lighter back into his pocket and takes a drag of the acrid smoke before answering.

“I thought I saw you a few times, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe mid-afternoon.”

Goemon hums. Not as early as he’d feared. The tea is on its way to becoming bitter when he takes a sip. Zenigata leans back, and leaves the cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth as Goemon fishes the teabag out and flicks it into a nearby trash can.

“I knew you and Fujiko were in the area,” he continues, around the butt of his cigarette, “So it wasn’t a complete surprise.”

That’s news to Goemon. While they hadn’t been keeping their actions a secret by any stretch of the imagination – Goemon was sure they’d been managing to stay under the radar of the ICPO. Plus, all of their current jobs were _technically_ legal – they’d hold up in any self-respecting court of law, mostly.

“How?”

Zenigata huffs out a small laugh at Goemon’s expression, “Personal interest, like I said – we’re not here for you two.”

“Hmmm.” Goemon considers clipping the lid back onto the cup, then decides against it, “Why _are_ you here then?”

“Classified…don’t give me that look. I’m not allowed to talk about it, only that it’s a high-profile case.” The inspector folds his arms with a grumble, “anyway, back to you. I thought Jigen would have been with you? Trouble in paradise?”

There’s a dry feeling in the back of Goemon’s throat that even the liquid from the tea can’t quell when Jigen’s name gets brought up so casually.

“Jigen is – “he begins, before he realises he doesn’t actually know where the gunman currently is, “We went our separate ways.”

Zenigata makes a ‘hrmmmph’ noise in the back of his throat, “I saw him in Tokyo. Briefly. Threw me for the loop it did – I assumed he was with you two over here. Had to triple check all of my information sources.”

“Ah,” It suddenly made more sense why there was no mention of the hitman circulating the American underground – he wasn’t even in the country. Goemon files the information away for Fujiko, if they wanted news on the gunman, they’d have to look further afield.

“Well,” The inspector pulls up the lid of his cup and looks into it morosely, “Good chat. Glad to see you two are on the right side of the law for once. Give Fujiko my regards, and tell her that Sawara is still the best place for matcha.”

There’s a familiar affection in the inspectors tone that Goemon can’t quite pin. He thinks back – Zenigata has pursued both himself and Fujiko for a long time. He was pursuing Fujiko in Japan long before Goemon joined forces with her.

“Surely a police inspector shouldn’t speak of a wanted criminal with such a familiar tone?”

Zenigata shrugs, but he at least has the presence to look mildly ashamed, “Look, I’ve known Fujiko Mine for a long time. We’ve not always been on opposite sides of the field. She just prefers your side, more money in it I suppose. Doesn’t mean I can’t pass on coffee recommendations when she’s behaving for once.”

It seems that Zenigata was full of surprising information this afternoon. Fujiko had never mentioned knowing the inspector through anything other than her misdemeanours before.

“When? This was before my time?”

Zenigata nods at the questions. He’s in the mood for reminiscing it seems, barely making a fuss when Goemon prods at him to continue.

“She would have been almost fresh out, barely a criminal record on her. She joined the force, legitimately. No-one thought she’d make it through, they thought for sure there was bribes involved, myself included. She just didn’t look like the type to make it past basic training.”

He stops for a moment, and Goemon can see that he’s no longer quite present.

“But she did?”

Zenigata grins, the same grim grin he used to wear whenever Lupin would pull out some ridiculous stunt.

“You bet she did. Top marks at the academy, she still holds the time record for the basic training obstacle course and only one person has managed to beat her overall score for firearms precision – and they came from the military. She could have made Inspector herself in record time if she’d stuck around a little longer.”

Goemon can see a younger Zenigata in his mind's eye. Underestimating Fujiko is an easy mistake to make. The present Zenigata doesn’t look unhappy with his misstep though, he wears the unguarded delight of a proud parent as he recounts the exploits.

“-Turns out she was only there to steal some classified documents, which she did right under our noses, then she resigned. It was almost a shame.”

He sighs roughly, paper cup crumpling in his hand.

“I didn’t realise you had so much history,” Goemon says carefully, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.

He makes a noncommittal sound, “She earnt my respect when she was with us. She was a hard worker and a good officer, even if she did double cross us in the end.”

He gives Goemon a sharp glance, “That doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you two when you eventually slip up though - you might not have any warrants right now, but when you do, it’s a one way ticket back to Tokyo, for both of you.”

Goemon inclines his head in acknowledgement, “I will keep that in mind.”

“You’d better,” the inspector grumbles, before he stands and throws his crumpled cup into the trash can with remarkable dexterity.

“I’ll see you around, Goemon,” he says.

Goemon stands as well, sensing the conversation has ended. Zenigata starts to walk away with nothing but a brief wave goodbye.

He takes a few steps before he turns and says loudly over his shoulder, “Stay out of trouble.”

The muted sarcastic affection brings a small smile to Goemon’s face. It was not quite what he expected when he started tailing the officer, but it was an interesting glimpse nonetheless.

* * *

Fujiko makes a worried face when Goemon tells her of his impromptu meeting, and the furrow in her brow only deepens when he tells her of Jigen’s apparent whereabouts. She stands swiftly, leaving him with a half-finished sentence in his mouth.

He can hear things being moved about in the next room. Something crashes, and he decides it might be in his best interest to investigate.

Fujiko is behind her desk, searching through the piles of paper. A quick glance reveals the source of the crash – one of the desk drawers, too heavy to carry its weight had fallen when she’d pulled it out.

“What are you looking for?”

She looks up briefly, and then back down to the pile of newspapers in front of her. She starts to shuffle through them with manic fervour.

“I saw something, it would have only been days ago.” She discards the papers she doesn’t want onto the other side of the desk, the pile already tipping precariously. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time – but now, I’m not so sure.”

She sits back in her chair holding an international paper aloft and starts to flick through the pages. Her voice comes through muffled from the other side, “You haven’t heard from Jigen lately have you?”

Goemon starts to shake his head. Then he remembers she can’t see him.

“No, I have not.”

Fujiko hums, and discards the paper, picking up another, muttering to herself as she does so. Two papers later, she beckons Goemon forward, spreading the pages flat on the desk. She points to a fairly small article in the middle of the page.

_‘Kyushu Police Bureau are currently investigating a string of murders in the Nagasaki area. Police spokesman Takahashi held a public conference yesterday, stating that the police had several leads that they were following up on, including reports of increased gang violence in the area. As of yesterday, 4 victims are confirmed dead, shot in their houses over the last 2 months. Police spokesperson urged the public to stay vigilant –“_

The article itself continued on in much the same vain, but Goemon was drawn to the picture. It was a small grainy thing, and it was a miracle it had even been printed at all. It was a recreation of part of a coroner’s report, a rough image showing the places on a body where bullet holes were located. There were three, one on either side of the image’s sternum, and the third in the centre of the forehead. It’s a hauntingly familiar pattern. When he reads the caption, something cold and icy touches the base of his spine.

_“Coroner reports: this is no accidental shooting – this is a controlled execution”_

Goemon swallows thickly. He can see where Fujiko is going with this. It does look suspiciously like -

“Do you think?”

He leaves the question open-ended. Fujiko purses her lips as she looks over the article once more.

“Maybe. Japan isn’t that big. If it is him, I don’t know who he’s with though– the Yakuza doesn’t really go for this sort of thing. This is very bold.”

“He said he was going to retire,” Goemon muses softly, eyes still drawn to the carefully notated picture of the bullet holes. The more he looks at them, the more he can see how they occur. He’s seen Jigen shoot many times, at long range and at close quarters.

_He can see in his mind’s eye – the gunman standing tall with his gun raised. Two shots ring out and hit a faceless figure in the chest, then Jigen focuses in, and a third shot rings out. If the figure hadn’t fallen before, it will now._

Fujiko’s voice drags him back to the present.

“I’ll keep an eye on it, it might not even be him.”

Goemon doubts her optimism. The facts line up too nicely.

“I think it is,” he says abruptly, “I don’t think he retired at all. Or if he did, he didn’t for very long.”

Fujiko turns the page, and huffs when she finds no more information. She picks up another paper and starts to flick through the pages.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” she says again, “Just in case.”

Goemon raises an eyebrow, “Just in case?”

Fujiko shrugs and continues to flick, “In case we need to bail him out. Tell me you wouldn’t feel awful if he got caught?”

She’s right, of course. But being right doesn’t quell the unease at the base of Goemon’s spine. He looks at the picture again, at the familiar bullet spread, and sends a quick prayer to the ancestors for the gunman’s sake.

He prays that they’re wrong - and if they’re not, then he prays that Jigen will at least be receptive to assistance.


	24. A Not Retirement Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> The following chapters are some of the earliest chapters I had in mind when I started writing this fic. We're delving pretty heavily into the unhealthy use of alcoholism as a coping mechanism, suicidal ideations, and there's going to be some fairly graphic violence (not in this chapter specifically, but definitely in the next few).  
> It may be confronting.

They keep an eye out for more information from Japan, but the papers go suspiciously quiet. Fujiko mentions offhandedly that maybe they take a trip home, and Goemon considers the option carefully, but Zenigata beats them to it. _He_ contacts _them_ , before they can make a decision.

The incredulous look on Fujiko’s face when she realises who is on the other end of the line is something Goemon wants to keep preserved in his memory forever. The perfect blend of shock and disbelief. When she gets off the phone, the first thing she does is ring the telecom company and changes the number – and all the others for good measure.

He’s waiting at the coffee shop. The one he’d recommended to Fujiko; sans hat and coat. He looks like any other businessman, out for a friendly coffee. He even goes so far as to shake Fujiko’s hand when they arrive, and he gives Goemon a respectful nod.

“This is off the record,” he says gruffly when they sit, “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking about this - definitely not to you two.”

He pulls out a blank folder and passes it to Fujiko. Her brow furrows as she opens it and reads. Goemon’s suspicions are proven correct when she passes it across. Jigen’s mug shot is plastered on the first page, the following is a warrant for his arrest. The next few pages outline his past crimes, and known locations. Something untwists inside Goemon when he reads the bold _‘Current Location Unknown’_ at the bottom of the page. The gunman is safe, for now.

“They suspect him of the killings then?” Fujiko is asking, her work face back on in full force.

Zenigata nods, “Bullet forensics match his MO. There’re not many guns for hire that use that calibre of bullet in Japan. The suspect list is already very short.”

While Goemon appreciates the information, even if it is worrying - there is something that he can’t work out.

“Why are you here?” he asks abruptly, “Why are you telling us this?”

Zenigata sighs, and rubs his forehead absently. Goemon suspects he’s been doing that a lot recently.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m a cop. I want Jigen in jail as much as the next officer, but -”

He rubs his forehead again, worrying the skin.

“- I’m at the end of my rope with the local force. These aren’t random killings; these are motivated assassinations. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s political. Whoever hired Jigen has a point to make, and at the rate its going - Jigen is going to take the fall for them.”

He grips the mug in front of him so hard Goemon worries in might crack.

“Jigen deserves a lot of things, jail time being one of them, don’t misunderstand me. But if he gets caught and tried for this, in this political climate - it won’t be a fair trial by a long shot. People are terrified. Gang violence is on the rise. They’ll hang him for this to scare everyone else and to appease the masses, and it will all be for nothing. Whoever is behind it can continue on their merry way without us getting any closer to them.”

Fujiko makes a displeased noise in the back of her throat. She’s still reading, eyebrows knit together as she focuses.

“I still don’t understand,” she says slowly, “why don’t you bring him in for a confession? He can point you in the right direction and surely that would carry weight and give him a fairer trial?”

Zenigata shakes his head, “the last assassination hasn’t been released to the media yet. The bullet forensics don’t quite match, but the victim choice checks out. 38-year-old female, gang affiliated -”

He swallows, “-confirmed 6 months pregnant.”

A heavy stone drops in Goemon's stomach. Beside him Fujiko makes a disbelieving scoff.

“As you can probably imagine,” the inspector continues, “even if this one wasn’t Jigen, there’s no way it’s not getting pinned on him. And there’s no way he gets an unbiased trial.”

“You do not think it’s him that has killed this woman?”

Zenigata taps the list of associates, “we suspect he’s affiliated with a mainland triad. These companies hire hundreds, thousands of guns each year. A bullet pattern is easily learnt, and Jigen’s preferred style is standard close-range military at its core. _I_ think he’s being set up to take a fall. But there’s very few detectives who want to go digging around that possibility with me. Not when they can get a quick collar.”

He sighs again, and it sounds like the action ages him ten years in a second.

“It’s not right,” he says, voice stretched taut, “It’s not proper justice.”

His fist clenches against the grains of the wooden table and Goemon finds a newfound respect for the old officer, and his passion for the correct way of doing things. For honour – even in the distribution of justice. They aren’t so different after all -

“What do you want us to do?” Fujiko asks warily, closing the folder and sliding it back to the inspector.

Zenigata takes it and places it back in his briefcase with a click. “Find him, if you can. Before we do. I was tailing for close to a week but then he realised he was being watched and he went to ground. We haven’t seen any sign of him since.”

Fujiko hums noncommittally and gives voice to the concern Goemon didn’t want to mention.

“I appreciate the concern, but we didn’t exactly part on the best terms. He made it very clear that he didn’t want us to contact him.”

Zenigata lifts his arms up with an exasperated expression, “Well, it was worth a shot! I would have thought that running around together for a year or so would have bred a little more compassion, but if you don’t want to do anything, then that’s fine.”

“And if we do?” Fujiko gives Goemon a side-eyed glance when he speaks.

Zenigata fixes him with a hard stare, “then I hope, for his sake, that you find him. And I hope he accepts some damn help. From my point of view - I need time to get underneath and find who’s calling the shots. The main suspect being removed would be mighty helpful in getting me that time.”

An uneasy silence falls over the table. Fujiko is looking for answers in her coffee cup, Zenigata looks like he wants to say something further, but can’t find the words. It’s as though they (as a collective group), have just realised that they are in fact, two criminals and an inspector sitting in a coffee shop and the whole scenario takes on a surreal quality. Like something out of a story book, or a fanciful television show.

Eventually the silence grates too loudly on Goemon’s nerves. So, he breaks it, “I was planning on returning to Japan in the near future. It is nearly time for my yearly rites, and I have things to discuss with my teachers.”

A grim, pleased expression crosses Zenigata’s features. He stands up and holds out a hand to each of them. They walk in silence to the end of the street, where they part ways. Goemon and Fujiko are about to start crossing the street when Zenigata clears his throat loudly. When Goemon looks at him, he looks like he can’t decide on whether to speak or not.

“Yes?”

“It might not make a difference. I don’t know how you lot work out your loyalties. But –“ a hand reaches up to crush down a non-existent hat, “Jigen didn’t look _well_ , when I was tailing him. He’s not at the top of his game. If he was, he would have noticed me a lot earlier.”

Fujiko smirks, “Awww, you’re worried Pops.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he splutters, then his expression falters as the pet name filters through. For a brief moment, the tough exterior seems to melt away.

“I hope you find him before we do,” he grumbles, and turns away. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

The dojo hasn’t changed at all in the time Goemon has been absent. His teachers greet him with the same calm, cool demeanours they had when he’d left.

It is refreshing, to go through the motions of being a student once more. To think of nothing but his training, to go about his day with no more forethought than where he is going to meditate.

He practices the motions of the sword, he swims in the nearby river, Zantetsuken between his teeth until he reaches the first waterfall he’d surpassed as student. The spray – once deafening and crushing, now feels like a gentle wave over his body, and it’s in that moment that Goemon realises how much he’s missed being home. The cool water washes away his fatigue, his tension. He sits there for hours, fingers wrinkled with dehydration by the time he stands to leave, but when he does – he feels more renewed than ever.

He finds a perch on a hillside and watches the sunrise over the mountains. Somewhere far away, he imagines there is a small grey goat, also watching a sunrise – or perhaps a sunset. There are no goats here, only flighty deer and timid rabbits. They might have coats of the same grey colour, but they do not compare to his unexpected companion. He sends a quick prayer of health, and hopes that it will reach.

There is no news, from above ground or below, regarding a certain gunman.

One of his teachers confirms that a western hitman had been circulating in the area Zenigata showed them – but says that there has been no new information for weeks. Every small lead turns into a dead end, and Goemon is nearly ready to give up. To assume the gunman has either met his match, or gone to ground completely. 

Then there’s another assassination.

Not just any assassination.

A politician is dead, one who staunchly opposed the presence of local gangs and crime syndicates. Within hours, the local news was in an uproar. Within days, news of the confusion was reaching Goemon in the north. Grainy pictures adorn the papers. Jigen’s face is clear as day in the line-up of suspects.

Zenigata contacts the dojo once – all business, to ask if Goemon had managed to get in touch with Jigen. His rough sigh crackles down then line when Goemon responds with a negative, and he hangs up almost as quickly, but not before saying, “If you find him now, don’t contact me.”

Fujiko has as much luck as the rest of them. None of her usual contacts tend to employ hitman services, so she struggles to find contacts further afield who might hold information.

It’s nearly two weeks later when she contacts him with grim tidings.

“I found him,” she says, and Goemon can imagine the expression on her face from her voice alone. “He didn’t want to be found, and he’s not in a good way, but I’ve got a location.”

Goemon’s phone dings, and he sees Fujiko’s number against a text message. 

“Did you speak with him?”

Goemon isn’t sure he wants to the know the answer. Not when Fujiko takes an audible shaky breath before answering.

“I did.”

“And?”

“I can’t go,” she says bluntly, “I don’t know if he’ll even let you get in, but it would be suicide for me. I know he was never really on board with me, but this. He won’t forgive me for this.”

Her voice cracks a little and she moves away from the receiver. Goemon hears a tiny choked sound before she clears her throat again.

“He wants this to be his last job. I don’t even want to know how drunk he was when I was talking to him, and that was at eleven in the morning. He’s – he’s not the same Jigen that left us in Italy.”

Goemon suspected this might be the case. The idea of retirement was a joke – neither he nor Jigen were the retiring type. He knew himself, that he would more than likely go down in a fight, when he was bested by someone more worthy to wield the Zantetsuken than himself. He would fall with honour, knowing that he had fought well, and had upheld his values. He would make his ancestors proud.

This, though. Jigen, probably too drunk to function, yet still deadlier than many of the assassins Japan had to offer – this was no honourable death. This was Jigen crippling himself to find a way out and the very thought burns an uncomfortable feeling in Goemon’s chest.

“Are you going to go?”

Goemon opens the phone and the screen lights up with an address and a photo of a house. Single story, more of a cabin than a house – one that looks to be holed up somewhere rural if the backdrop is to be believed.

He wants to find the gunman. The part of him that nurses the memories of Italy, of being close again, even without the gentle buffer of Lupin present, wants to find him. Fujiko hit the nail on the head, he _does_ miss Jigen. He likes being with Fujiko, but still he _misses_ the gunman. Because above all, Jigen is his _friend_.

And Goemon is loyal to his friends.

“Yes.” He says slowly, running his fingers along the grain of Zantetsukens scabbard, “I will go.”

* * *

The house looks deserted when Goemon arrives. There are no lights on in the windows, nor does there appear to be any activity around the general area. It’s definitely the right house though – it matches the photo Fujiko gave him perfectly.

He’s considering which angle to approach from safely when he feels something cold touch the small of his back. It’s not long then until he smells the stench of ethanol, bitter and biting. He turns slowly, the gun barrel staying level at his waist the whole time. When he finally sees Jigen, he drops his sword.

The gunman looks – well he looks like shit.

The soft sandals on his feet explain why Goemon never heard him moving around – he can move silently, but not that silently in oxfords. It’s the kimono that throws the samurai completely for the loop. He’s never seen Jigen in anything bar his suits, and one ratty pair of pyjama pants that follow him wherever he goes. Goemon can feel his brain short-circuiting as he tries to reconcile this new figure, with the same gunman he already knows. At least the hat is a constant.

He’s drunk, and obviously so. Now that Goemon is truly looking he can see the slight tremor in his arm that gives it away, even if the rest of him is still.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

The words slur into each other, and Goemon has to concentrate hard to catch each one singularly. Jigen fixes him with a quizzical look, as if he’s trying to work something out. He unloads the magnum and twirls it by the trigger guard absently. Goemon takes the opportunity to bend down and pick up his sword.

“I am here, because someone thought you may have need of a friend.”

Jigen’s expression turns murderous, “That bitch. I told her to fuck right off. I don’t need a babysitter. M’retired. Just wanna be alone.”

“Retired? Is that what they call it these days?”

The gunman throws an arm up dismissively, “Fuck you too.”

Goemon sighs, his suspicions confirmed. This is going to be difficult. Jigen starts to wander off in the direction of the house without another word. Goemon dithers for a second before he follows the gunman.

The inside of the building reminds Goemon of the previous safe-houses he’s been in that have been owned by Jigen. The necessities are there – but not much else. A low thin mattress seems to double as a couch by the way Jigen flops himself onto it without ceremony. A quick peek into the other rooms reveals nothing of note – a small bathroom, sparse bedroom, and barely stocked kitchen are all fairly par for course where the gunman is concerned. The only things that are well stocked is the tobacco and the liquor – although Goemon can’t say he’s exactly surprised by that.

Has it really been six months? Logically it has been, but Goemon has to wonder if time even passes in this small safe-house. It certainly doesn’t look like it. He takes a seat gingerly opposite the gunman, who is regarding him steadily from under the brim of his hat.

He isn’t sure what to say, and not for the first time, he wonders if perhaps Fujiko should have been the one to do this – despite her worry. At least she has the ability to partake in small talk, something Goemon is acutely aware he lacks. If she were here, she would know what to say. She would know the right words to use to coax the gunman back out of his shell.

It’s a shame, for Jigen’s sake – because he only has quiet, awkward Goemon. He’s not sure how long they sit there for, it could be minutes, it could be hours – eventually though, the gunman takes it upon himself to break the oppressive silence.

“Why are you really here?’

“I – we, were worried. About you.”

Jigen cocks an eyebrow with a tenacity that Goemon is certain he would not be able to obtain if he was as drunk as Jigen is.

“Cute,” he says, in a voice that suggests the notion is anything but cute, “why now? Why not six months ago?”

Because _you_ left _us_. Because it seemed like you wanted to be alone. Because there was never a good time afterwards.

Goemon sighs instead, ignoring the way Jigen fixes him with the ten-yard stare of a drunk who has something in his way that he wants removed.

“It appears we were mistaken; I am sorry.”

The confused look is back, Goemon shoulders on, “I should have come earlier, should have looked earlier.”

Jigen shrugs, seemingly unconcerned with Goemon’s sincere apology. He tries a different track.

“Jigen, you are the subject of a nationwide manhunt – are you not in the least bit worried?”

The gunman shrugs again, “Let ‘em come.”

He lights up a cigarette and forms a half-hearted smoke ring. Goemon scoffs lightly at the nonchalance. Some things truly don’t change, even in the hardest of circumstances. In the half-light he can observe the gunman properly though – and Goemon does not like what he sees. Jigen has never been a big man in the time Goemon has known him, but his collarbones never used to jut out the way they do now. The dark bags under his eyes were never so pronounced. Grief has carved itself viscerally all over the gunman’s form, whether he is aware of it or not.

“Do you truly wish to court death in this way?”

If Jigen is surprised at the choice of words he doesn’t show it. His blank response worries Goemon even further.

“Like I said, I’ve had this coming for years – may as well get it over it.”

It’s troubling, and Goemon is starting to see the undercurrent of what is happening. He’s not going to get anywhere tonight. Jigen is too far gone, the slurring of his words becoming more pronounced with every syllable. He reaches for the whiskey in front of him and that’s when Goemon notices there’s no glasses anywhere in sight. Jigen drinks straight from the bottle and Goemon watches, while something uncomfortable settles in the pit of his stomach at the sight.

The unease only settles in further when Jigen stands and lurches towards the small bedroom. Goemon stands swiftly, remembering vividly the feeling of unsteadiness from his own drinking adventure. Jigen makes it to the room with no more overbalancing, and looks up at Goemon with hooded eyes as he toes off his shoes. When he stands and moves into Goemon’s space, Goemon feels a lot shorter than he actually is. Jigen’s glassy stare provides no insight into his thoughts or movements.

Jigen touches the edge of Goemon’s kimono where it meets his bindings, and Goemon feels like he probably needs to run away – far away.

“Y’gonna be here in the morning?”

His fine dexterity doesn’t seem to be inhibited by the alcohol at all, as he runs the pads of his fingers up and down the hem of the fabric. Goemon covers his hand with his own, putting an abrupt stop to the movement.

“Yes. I will be.”

“Good.”

“Goodnight, Jigen.”

Jigen hums in response, and looks closely at Goemon’s hand before extracting his fingers from the loose grip. Goemon suspects that he’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow.


	25. Goemon is here.

Jigen wakes to pain behind his eyes and ash in his throat. He reaches blindly for his hat to blot out the offensive light, shining through the gap in the curtains. His tongue feels thick and fuzzy in his mouth but it doesn’t matter. He stumbles towards the hallway, intent only on making it as far as the bathroom when he stops short at the closed bedroom door.

He doesn’t close the door.

Images start to filter in slowly as he stares blankly at the door handle. Jumbled words, a gun pointed at someone’s waistline, shaggy dark hair ruffling in the wind as the person turns and drops – something.

_Goemon?_

His kimono is a different fabric the one Jigen currently wears. The pads of his fingers rub together absently as he struggles to remember.

_Goemon is here – why?_

To witness his downfall? Its almost poetic. He vaguely remembers a conversation with Fujiko – her voice too sweet, too sugary for Jigen to handle, even over the phone. It had repulsed him and he’d yelled. He’d made her cry with nothing but his sharp words and he felt no remorse.

_“I’m going to tell Goemon,” she’d said._

_“Tell him,” he’d goaded, with an ugly laugh, “Tell him, and see if he wants to come and see the end of Daisuke Jigen. Maybe he can help, and put me out of my misery himself.”_

He touches the door handle gingerly, half expecting it to burn. There is no sound. Is Goemon even here? Maybe it was all a dream. Was he so far gone that he was dreaming of the samurai now?

Then again, sometimes he dreamed of Lupin, so maybe he wasn’t that far off.

The bathroom is small, and the water is so cold it stings when it comes out the tap. He should clean, the grime is visible to the naked eye, but he can’t make the effort – it’s too hard.

Everything is too hard.

He thanks his past self for leaving half a bottle of - something, beside the sink. Gin, maybe. He gives it an experimental sniff, smelling nothing but the sharp bitter aroma of ethanol. It doesn’t matter anyway. His morning drinks aren’t drunk for their refined taste. He swallows and it burns. Then he drinks again and it doesn’t burn quite so much anymore.

His gaze is drawn to the mirror, small and smudged, dirty from the steam and he feels distaste rise in his mouth. The mirror stares back at him with gaunt, listless eyes. He’s drinking too much – he knows it. He’s self-aware as well as self-destructive. His beard is scratchy when he rubs his chin. He needs a shave, he needs a haircut – hell, he actually needs to shower, but what the fuck does any of that matter when he’s spiralling. When he’s falling too fast to stop himself.

Nothing really matters.

Nothing but the marks.

It’s been nearly two weeks. He’ll be contacted again soon with another assignment. Something to focus on besides the inside of his own eyelids. Another line of red to add to his ledger. Not that it needs it. It’s already positively dripping.

The face in the mirror gives him an ugly look as he drains the bottle. Silent, but judging.

_What a man?_ It seems to say. _Look at him, reduced to drinking poison before he can even function._

Jigen clenches a fist as the mouth splits wide in a gross laugh.

_Poor Jigen. Poor, poor Jigen. Look at him now, he needs a drink just to stop the shakes._

He raises a fist but the mirror keeps cackling. His fist shakes. Minutely, but it does. His own body, betraying him.

His hand doesn’t shake when it collides with the mirror. The glass splits with a crack and he watches his own face shatter before him. He still bleeds red, which is funny, because he’s certain that he’s more alcohol than blood at this point. There’s no pain, nothing. Nothing but numbness and he watches the thick red liquid emulsify with the water in the sink, turning it a rusty pink.

Tiny slivers of his reflection blink at him, the shards of glass still stuck in the flesh of his hand. He picks them out and they tinkle like wind chimes against the porcelain. He’s so engrossed in his task; he doesn’t hear the footsteps. He sees the smallest movement in the corner of eye. Hears nothing but a rustle of fabric.

_No one was supposed to be here…_

His arm comes into contact with a wall of solid muscle, but Jigen has the element of surprise on his side. The body hits the hallway wall with a soft grunt. Jigen’s bloody fist balls in soft fabric and he gets a whiff of something cool and crisp, something floral as hair whips into his face, and its seconds too late that his mind catches up with the inhabitant of the clothes he’s now drenching in blood.

Goemon _is_ here.

Goemon stares impassively at him, jaw set into a tense line. Vaguely, Jigen registers that he’s probably lucky to still be standing.

Blood drips down between them and Goemon looks down with vague disinterest. He pulls a cloth, usually reserved for his sword from the folds of fabric. It too, didn’t survive Jigen’s fist, the pale white glistening with red stains. Goemon holds it up, gestures for Jigen to take it. He hasn’t spoken yet, which is unusual. Isn’t it? Jigen can’t remember. Maybe this is all still a dream?

A god-awful, sober dream, because it’s no longer torture enough to suffer through the night, now they have to come for him in broad daylight as well.

He knocks the cloth aside and it drops to the ground with the heaviness of a brick. Goemon looks at him with wide eyes, the rest of his face an impenetrable wall. He looks behind, where Jigen knows the sink is still covered in a bright array of shattered glass and congealing blood.

Goemon’s mouth opens and Jigen is sure. He is one hundred percent sure that the voice he hears won’t be the samurai. He has no proof, no rationale, only muted certainty. A word starts to form and he presses a filthy hand over Goemon’s mouth to stem the noise.

But it, the face, that jawline, it feels like Goemon. It feels real –

He needs to get out. The bathroom is too small and Goemon is taking up space in a way Jigen doesn’t remember him ever doing.

He steps past, down the hallway blindly. Lights up on autopilot – his teeth itching for something between them. The curtain is open in his sorry excuse for a living room and the bright light sends a sharp lance of pain from Jigen’s eyes to the back of his head.

He picks up a bottle, doesn’t bother to read the label. He drinks, the hard liquor not even close to touching his thirst, so he drinks more. And more.

The ghost of Goemon hasn’t followed him. Hasn’t made a noise.

Jigen laughs. A thin, hoarse sound, echoing in the silence. Maybe he really is losing it? He doesn’t remember ever feeling like this before, during the few times he’s made it this low. Or maybe he’s just lower than he’s ever been. Closer to the ground than ever, dropped from his perch high in the sky like a stone.

He collapses onto the mattress, still chuckling at his own misfortune when something in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He wipes drying blood away on his own shirt and reaches.

The scabbard of the Zantetsuken is smooth, the grain barely noticeable unless you run your fingers against it. Jigen unsheathes the blade with a click, the metal cool to the touch and unequivocally real. Something drops in the bathroom. He clicks the sword back into place, grips the wood hard to make sure it’s still real.

It is.

Goemon _is_ here.

The reality of the previous night and his recent mishap stomps Jigen viciously into the ground. From where he lies on his side, he can bring the sword to eye level. The memory of his bloody fist against Goemon’s chest makes him want to retch, but he hasn’t eaten anything solid in days and has nothing in his stomach to give.

The wooden scabbard is still cool to the touch, still silky smooth against his fingertips.

A choked noise escapes him, as the weight of the realisation hits him again, and again. It might have been a cough; it might have been a retch; it might have been a sob. He wouldn’t know.

But Goemon _is_ _here_.

* * *

Goemon places the shattered glass from the floor carefully into the sink. He will deal with the rest of the mess later. First, he needs to find the gunman. There was no slamming of a door, so its unlikely he’s left the house.

The living room greets him with an unusual spectacle. Not that anything he’s currently witnessing could be considered ‘ _usual’_ by any stretch of the imagination. Jigen is holding his sword, and the flash of anger at the blatant disrespect is quickly muted by concern when he takes a proper look at the pained expression on the gunman’s face. His eyes are squeezed shut, and when Goemon looks closer he realises that he’s holding Zantetsuken in a death grip, almost like a lifeline.

Goemon carefully extracts the still burning cigarette from between Jigen’s lips. He can’t tell if the gunman is passed out, or merely asleep, and he doesn’t want to deal with the house accidentally burning down. He stubs it out in an ashtray and squats back down beside the still form of his friend.

“Jigen?” He places a hand gingerly on his shoulder, legs tense, ready to jump back if he needs.

Jigen says nothing, he only grips the scabbard tighter, his knuckles turning almost white with the pressure. Goemon tries again with no changes. He sighs, and stands tall – looks around. A quick search of the kitchen tells him that the gunman hasn’t been eating well, if at all – confirmation for what the frankly alarming amount of liquor bottles had already suggested. Goemon picks up a half empty bottle of scotch and shakes it, he’s not sure how Jigen’s been surviving, let alone doing assassination jobs, if all he’s existing on is liquor, cigarettes and coffee.

Jigen shows no signs of moving, and Goemon begins to suspect that maybe he just desperately needs the rest. The gunman doesn’t even stir when he opens the curtains fully, bathing the dark room in light – so Goemon takes his lack of response as an opportunity to do _something_ about the state of the living quarters.

Clean and tidy living quarters was something that was drilled into Goemon from a young age. Everything had a place, and when one’s living space was clean, then that cleanliness and order would leak into one’s body and mind. He tries recall, and cannot, whether Jigen was an inherently messy person. He doesn’t think so – not even Lupin was _that_ messy. Lupin tended to lean towards unorganised chaos but he _was_ clean.

Still, cleaning gives his hands something to do, and it makes him feel better about _doing_ something for Jigen – because he still hasn’t got a clue how to broach the subject of _how_ the gunman is doing. By mid-morning the first layer of dust on most of the surfaces has been eradicated, and the blood is gone from the bathroom. The kitchen looks halfway workable, and the living room no longer looks like its been squatted in for the last six months. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless and Goemon is pleased with his work.

His meditation is interrupted by a groan from the mattress in front of him, and he watches with wary eyes as Jigen moves slowly into a sitting position. The gunman looks in his direction with glassy eyes, and then his gaze drops back to Zantetsuken, still in his hands. He looks up with a worried look once he realises the relic in his hands, likely expecting to be reprimanded.

On a normal day, Goemon would have. But today is not a normal day.

Jigen runs his fingers along the wood, gaze flickering between Goemon and the sword in his lap.

“Guess it wasn’t a dream then,” he mutters lowly, fidgeting with the catch of the scabbard.

“No.”

He looks up at the sound of Goemon’s voice. Now that they are both bathed in daylight, Goemon can see more clearly just how unwell Jigen looks. He’s unkempt in the way a man who no longer cares for himself is - and noticing it only serves to grow the unease in Goemon’s chest when he looks at his friend.

“M’Sorry,” Jigen starts, pausing when Goemon gives him a quizzical look.

He gestures to Goemon’s chest. He looks down. Ah, the blood. That was the least of Goemon’s concerns.

“It is of no consequence,” he says, although the gunman doesn’t look convinced.

Jigen sighs with his whole body, tilting his head back and closing his eyes with the motion.

“I s’pose you want to talk?”

“An astute observation.”

Jigen’s mouth twitches up at the side at the dry answer, but the action doesn’t meet his eyes. The coffee table puts too much distance between them for this heavy kind of talk, so Goemon stands and moves to sit cross legged, facing the gunman on the mattress.

It seems as though they’re going to have a repeat of the previous night – where they sat for minutes, hours with neither of them willing to speak. Jigen looks back down at the sword on his knees and Goemon takes it upon himself to break the silence.

“Are you trying to die, Jigen?”

Jigen lets out a heavy breath. A whoosh of air.

“We really going straight into that?”

Goemon meets his gaze, and nods slowly. He doesn’t do small talk.

“I suppose you could see it that way,” he says dully, eyes shifting so they don’t quite meet Goemon’s, “I’m not going out of my way – but I probably wouldn’t try and dodge a bullet.”

Goemon hums, processing. He hadn’t expected such a straightforward answer – but then again, Jigen was almost sober now.

“Why?”

Jigen focuses in on small fleck of colour on Zantetsukens scabbard, running his fingers along the area, backwards and forwards. He doesn’t say anything for a few long minutes. Goemon waits – he has patience to spare.

“I’ve,” he rubs the back of his neck absently, the movement highlighting his gaunt collarbones, “I’ve done enough damage to enough people for this lifetime – hell, for the next ten lifetimes. I’d hang it up if I could. But it’s worse being retired.”

“Worse than this?” Goemon looks blatantly around the now clean room, vividly remembering the state it was in earlier that morning.

“With this I still get marks,” Jigen speaks like he’s on autopilot, and perhaps he is. Goemon wonders how often he’s actually spoken to people in the last six months for anything longer than a small pleasantry.

“I get something to concentrate on, even if its only for a few days. A few days to concentrate is enough, it’s better than being alone, with no purpose.”

“Why didn’t you reach out? To us?” Goemon leaves out the unspoken ‘ _to me?_ ’ but it’s implied, and he knows Jigen knows it from the ashamed look that flashes across his features.

“I couldn’t, to start with. Not after Lupin – “He takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes briefly before he continues, “Before him, I was existing. I was doing alright. Steady job. Not bad, not great. Then he comes along, and gives me a job that I enjoy for the first time in years, weasels his way right in to being my friend without me even noticing. You spend so long around him, and he makes you forget that people die – that people _can_ die.”

Something that looks an awful lot like a tear starts to track its way down one of Jigen’s cheeks. He doesn’t move to wipe it away, so Goemon respectfully averts his eyes. He suspects this is his one and only chance to get the gunman to speak – he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Then he goes and dies – and my options are retiring, stay with people who remind me of my dead friend, or go back to killing for cash. I couldn’t stay, so I retired, only to discover that twenty-four hours a day with no real motive is worse than any job I’ve ever done.”

The hand not gripping Zantetsuken balls into a fist, his voice getting louder and tenser with each word.

“By that point it’s been months, and I _can’t_ call, even though Lupin being dead isn’t the issue any more. My mind is the issue now, everything is so tiresome it feels like I’m losing it. So, I take up a contract instead, and here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” Goemon echoes softly.

“So, you’re not here to put me out of my misery?”

Goemon looks at Jigen with a level gaze. Only the faintest tear track remains, his eyes are dry now, face blank, impassive.

“You know that I am not.”

The gunman huffs, “Pity. I wouldn’t have minded as much if it were you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment – but I have no wish to end your life. On the contrary, I have selfish reasons to want to protect it.”

When Jigen looks at him, its with the same ten-yard expression from the previous night and Goemon has to remind himself that the gunman isn’t actually drunk anymore. Jigen cocks an eyebrow in question and waits.

“You are a friend,” Goemon says simply, hoping that his point has been made successfully.

Jigen makes a ‘harrumph’ sound, “Some friend.”

“A friend in need is still a friend.”

“Mmmm,” Jigen hums, and with that, the bubble that seemed to surround them dissipates, “Well, this friend needs a drink, and a smoke.”

Goemon bows his head in acknowledgement. He has surpassed one bridge today, the bridge of Jigen’s substance dependence will have to wait for another opportunity. 

“Where is the closest town?” he asks, ignoring Jigen’s confused look.

It will be easier to feel less guilty about Jigen’s drinking if he can at least make sure he’s eating solid food alongside it.


	26. Dismantle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: WARNING:  
> This chapter contains explicit violence.

Living with Jigen is very different to living with Fujiko.

Living with Fujiko is soft edges and coy winks. It’s red wine and spotless apartments, soft laughter over building plans and fraudulent contracts, a peck on the cheek before retiring.

Living with Jigen is none of these things.

Living with Jigen is blunt words and edges sharp enough to cut. It’s hard liquor and ash, a face hidden under the brim of a hat and empty silences in the half light of the evening as the television crackles static in the background.

Goemon is a creature of habit and it takes a day or so, but he soon sees that Jigen too, amongst everything else, has managed to salvage his own routine. Hungover or not, he wakes just after dawn, his body clock stubbornly refusing give up its internal rhythm. He stumbles into the kitchen, cigarette hanging loosely between his teeth, pours coffee strong enough to make Goemon gag, before retreating to the wall near the front door to smoke. More often than not, the coffee is spiked with liquor, but Goemon doesn’t say anything – he knows a thing or two about uphill battles, and this isn’t a fight he’s going to win.

Instead, he fights the battle’s he _is_ going to win. He fills the fridge with _real_ food. Jigen grumbles when he replaces some of the liquor with water, but he drinks it anyway. It’s not exactly comfortable. It’s not really anything like they _were_ , but it’s bearable.

The tension isn’t gone completely, it still bleeds through. Jigen is too erratic to walk on eggshells though and Goemon refuses to out of principle, so they don’t tiptoe so much as stomp around each other. Goemon imagines it’s a miracle they haven’t been at each other’s throats more than once.

He still worries though. Worries that simply by doing – speaking through actions, won’t be enough. There have been no more altercations, no more smashed glass, but there are still times when Jigen doesn’t look present in his own body.

Goemon doesn’t know how to broach the subject. Fujiko is uncontactable on her current job, so he can’t go to her for advice. All he can do is hope that his presence is enough, and hope that Jigen gets contacted soon for his own job.

* * *

Jigen doesn’t expect Goemon to stay. Still not entirely convinced the visit isn’t some alcohol induced hallucination – he waits for the other shoe to drop, and for the samurai to disappear.

Only he doesn’t.

A week later and Goemon is still there. Still there meditating on the mattress – the first thing Jigen sees in the morning when he stumbles out of the bedroom. ( _Is he sleeping? It’s hard to tell – harder to tell a hallucination from the real thing when they both don’t sleep_.) He’s there, putting vegetables in the fridge, cooking rice on the stove and death glaring in Jigen’s direction until he eats, small mouthful after small mouthful. It’s like he’s never been gone at all.

He’s there in the evening, when the sun sets and so does Jigen’s sanity, the darkness sliding in through the gaps in the walls, under the door.

It’s not as bad though, when the samurai sits cross-legged beside him, chuckling softly at the grainy image Jigen has managed to coax onto the small television screen. An aura surrounds him that keeps the darkness at bay so long as Jigen stays near him. Gravitates towards him, like a moth to a flame.

Goemon is a steady, grounding presence – a well of untapped peace. And when they sit shoulder to shoulder, and Jigen tilts his head just so – he can see the well in its entirety, in the depths of dark brown eyes. It sparks something heavy in his chest, and smooths out his roughened edges. It makes it hurt less to breathe, to speak, to exist. Like flint and tinder against kindling, a tiny spark flies and starts to smoulder. Goemon leans closer against Jigen’s shoulder as he huffs out a laugh at a joke from the television – the puff of air only fuelling the tiny flames.

Goemon meets his gaze steadily – nothing but concerned affection present in his dark eyes, and Jigen is out of his depth and drowning. The flames are growing higher, the smoke is choking him from the inside out – burning his airways. Goemon’s mouth twists up at the side in a small smile and the action sends a bolt of scorching _want_ down Jigen’s spine.

It’s curious, to feel again.

Curious, because for months Jigen has felt nothing.

Curious, because ‘ _want_ ’ like this ( _old want, familiar want_ ) feels foreign under his skin. Feels fragile and breakable.

Curious, because Goemon came here smelling like Fujiko, but now he smells like second-hand smoke, and he leans into contact and Jigen doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t _want_ to know what to make of it.

His mind is not his own sometimes. But even when the connection is tenuous, Goemon is constant.

So, Jigen does what he should have done with Lupin months ago, as they lean back against a hard wood wall in lieu of a sofa. Goemon chuckles and stills as Jigen slumps down, as he drops his head carefully against a strong shoulder. For a moment he’s worried he’s read the room wrong – but with a low exhale Goemon tilts his head until it rests on top of his own. He stops running, and lets the samurai catch him.

When Jigen closes his eyes, he can hear the low thrum of Goemon breathing, can feel the tiny movements against his cheek. The television static is white noise in his ears, drowning everything out. He closes his eyes, and he can finally taste the peace that he craves.

Grounding, blissful, peace.

Who knows how long they sit there? Jigen sure doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter because the kindling has been tempered. Goemon’s hand is relaxed against his knee, his breathing evening out to the point where Jigen thinks he might actually be asleep.

Then the phone rings and he nearly jumps out of his own skin.

Goemon jerks back with a start, eyes following the sound to its source. Jigen stares at the rattling receiver; because for a moment, in the upheaval that Goemon had brought with him, he’d forgotten that he was going to get another mark.

* * *

Jigen’s conversation is short and clipped, terse Mandarin confirming Zenigata’s suspicions of mainland involvement. He grabs a loose sheet of paper and a pen and starts to scribble notes, his expression blank and unreadable.

Goemon doesn’t go out of his way to listen – he expects that Jigen will inform him of what he needs to know in due course. He does catch a few words here and there – and when Jigen raises his voice and says firmly. “ _No. This will be the last._ ”

Perhaps all is not lost.

Jigen drops the receiver back with a loud click. His knees crack as he sits heavily beside Goemon once more, holding the sheet of paper loosely between two fingers in front of him. He doesn’t speak, just looks at the sheet of paper with an uninterested expression. Goemon waits, he has nowhere else to be after all.

Jigen leans back against the wall and sighs.

“I’m tired, Goemon.”

When he says the words in such a defeated tone, he looks years older than his mid-thirties.

“I know,” Goemon can see the fatigue as clear as day written on the gunman’s features.

He closes his eyes and his head falls back with a soft thud.

“I don’t think I want to kill people after this. I mean, I will if I have to – but I think my ledger is full enough.”

Goemon hums softly, considering the words.

“Come with me,” he says cautiously, waiting for a reaction.

“After this job,” he clarifies, “I don’t work with Fujiko _all_ the time and even so, the work we’ve been doing lately is a lot less –“

He pauses, looking for a suitable word.

“Murder-y” Jigen suggests.

“Hmmmm, yes.”

Jigen makes a gruff noise in his throat. He fiddles with the edge of the paper between his hands.

“What are your plans?”

“It is nearly time for my yearly rites,” though to be fair, Goemon isn’t sure whether the time has passed or not. It’s been so long since he’s seen a calendar. “I must speak with the ancestors, then I will return to work.”

“Where are you based?”

“America,” he says, expecting a noise of dissent from the gunman, but nothing comes. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

“You got time to stick around for a job before you go?”

Jigen looks at him out the corner of his eye. The question is phrased in a way that says he’s doesn’t think the samurai will say yes. As though there is even a slight possibility that Goemon would say no to the man.

“Yes,” he nods, “We will do your job, then we will go, if that is acceptable?”

Jigen nods, his head thunking against the wall. He leans forward and smooths out the paper.

“Alright,” he says, and that’s that. They have a job.

* * *

The mark is Saito Ren.

Now that he has a purpose once more, the fog lifts around Jigen. He throws himself into surveillance, manic to the point of exhaustion until he knows every last detail about the man that’s possible to learn within a week. He knows what the man eats, where he sleeps, the way he walks to work, his favourite coffee shop.

He frequents a bar near the edge of town – fortunate for Jigen, unfortunate for him. The area is flanked by unused office buildings marked for demolition by the local council – it’s the easiest assassination Jigen’s planned in years.

He’s so focussed he doesn’t even care that Goemon hovers, as though he’s going to snap at any moment. It almost makes him work harder, if only to see the wry half smile when he collapses onto the couch mattress to bring Goemon up to speed on his findings.

It’s early in the morning; barely 1am, and the living room feels like its isolated from the rest of the world. Goemon sits beside him, knees knocking as they pour over a roughly drawn map. Jigen says something offhand – it comes out before he even registers it, doesn’t think before he speaks. Goemon leans back with a chuckle, his cheekbones flushed, dusty pink, and Jigen can _feel_ his mouth go dry.

Goemon looks at him with an odd expression, and he reaches blindly for his drink so he’s got something to hide behind. When his fingers wrap around the glass, he realises absently that this is the first night he’s even _bothered_ to get a glass instead of drinking straight from the bottle and the thought sobers him a little more.

“Are you alright?”

Goemon tilts his head to the side as though the new perspective will help him figure out the gunman.

The scotch bites at the back of his throat when he swallows a bit too quickly.

“Yeah, m’good,” he gets out between coughs, “might call it a night.”

The concerned look on Goemon’s face eases as he looks over Jigen’s shoulder towards the clock on the wall.

“That would probably be a wise decision.”

Jigen chuckles, then winces as his legs bemoan his attempt to stand after sitting cross legged for so long, “I do have those every now and then.”

Jigen doesn’t move quick enough, and when Goemon stands he finds himself once more caught in the orbit of the samurai, close enough to lean forward and touch – if he had a reason. Goemon meets his eyes ( _that’s something he likes about the samurai, he’s always direct, he doesn’t shy away from meeting Jigen head on – in anything_ ), and Jigen is struck by the notion that maybe Goemon _wants_ something too.

It would be easy, romantic even. Jigen could lean forward, close the gap between them. There’s barely an inch between them in height. It’s been months but he still remembers how Goemon tasted when he kissed him. Still remembers how his lips felt when they opened up underneath him, remembers the tiny noises, almost inaudible over the background noise in the Italian townhouse.

It would be so _easy_.

But Jigen is a coward, so he doesn’t close the distance, he puts more between them. He stops at the hallway and for a moment it looks like Goemon wants to follow him. He takes the few steps the bring him level with the gunman once more, and lifts a hand. Places it cautiously on Jigen’s shoulder, as though he’s preparing for it to be shrugged off.

“Goodnight Jigen,” he says, hand squeezing briefly before it drops between them, “Sleep well.”

He slides past the gunman and makes his way down the hallway. If Jigen wasn’t a coward he could say something. He could ask him to stay, offer him the other side of the bed instead of the mattress he’s been sleeping on.

But Jigen _is_ ultimately a coward. And the tragic irony isn’t lost on him that he’s repeating himself. That he’s stepping in the same tracks he walked with Lupin. Potentially making the same mistakes. He tries not to think too much on it, as he goes to the bedroom alone, and collapses against the wall with nothing but the faint memory of a strong hand against his cheek, and a second body warm against his back.

* * *

Watching Jigen work reminds Goemon starkly of the times that people would underestimate the gunman when he worked alongside Lupin. They would be so focused on the flashy thief that they neglected to notice the wolf in their midst – more often than not to their detriment. The gunman is a dangerous force in his own right – a true master at his craft – honed through years of experience.

They lie in wait for the mark. Goemon is watching Jigen’s back – not that they expect any trouble, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. As far as plans go, this one goes off perfectly. The man stumbles out of the bar, Jigen pulls the trigger, the man crumples to the ground. The job is done and dusted within minutes.

Jigen’s pulling his rifle apart to stow it in a bag when something prickles at the back of Goemon’s neck. A shadow moves in a window in the next building over. Goemon squints to no avail, but he can see nothing – there’s too many clouds ( _it’s going to rain, or storm_ ) to use the light of the moon to look for the tell-tale glint of steel. A car horn toots in the distance, an engine revs in response, sound carried in by the wind, rustling the curtains.

A floorboard creaks below them.

Jigen stops mid action, his hand going straight to his revolver. Goemon leaps lightly to his feet, sword at the ready. Jigen moves gingerly to the other side of the door – it opens outwards so there’s no safe side to hide on while they wait for the potential intruder to show themselves.

Sound around him fades to black and Goemon can hear nothing but the wind in the curtains and the sound of his own pulse.

A stair creaks. A long-drawn-out noise, as though someone is stepping very carefully, to try and disguise their presence. He catches Jigen’s eye and the man has the audacity to almost grin at him, the side of his mouth twisting upwards in a wry smile. This is the Jigen he’s been looking for, for the past week.

Neither of them moves a muscle when the doorknob starts to turn. Goemon readies his blade.

The door swings open, and a man Goemon recognises from the Japanese hit list starts to walk through the door, his gun and a knife held aloft in front of him. He doesn’t get far. He walks right into the waiting path of the Zantetsuken, and he spits crimson with a surprised look on his face before he falls face down onto the floorboards.

A slip of paper falls from a shirt pocket as he does, landing lightly near Jigen’s feet. He picks it up with a grim expression before showing it to Goemon. It’s an old photo, but that doesn’t matter when Jigen has such a distinctive appearance.

A shot rings out – unsilenced – and Goemon yanks Jigen down by his sleeve until they’re both lying prone, the dead body between them.

“Is this bounty collection?” he asks as quietly as possible, not wanting to make too much noise in case there are more people lying in wait.

“Nope,” Jigen shakes his head and hands the picture over. Chinese characters adorn the back. “This is my resignation party.”

It takes no time at all for Jigen to crawl and grab his rifle bag, shoving parts in without ceremony now. When the gunman meets his gaze, his eyes are bright – and Goemon is momentarily stunned by how alive he looks.

Goemon crawls over to where Jigen is, ignoring the body in the doorway. He squats under the windowsill, not game enough to give their position away again yet.

“What’s the plan?” he asks, as Jigen zips his bag shut and shoulders it.

Jigen grins at him, all teeth, “It’s time to go.”

* * *

There would be God-knows how many assassins on their tails. Triads did nothing by halves, and Jigen had sincerely doubted they would let him just up and leave their ranks without so much as a formal goodbye – the body lying in its own blood in the doorway was proof of his suspicions.

They make it down the stairs, Jigen spots a figure behind the front door and motions to Goemon. The samurai slams the door open, and Jigen follows up with the butt of his revolver to the man’s chin. The wooden stock makes a satisfying crunch against bone, and the man drops, unconscious, his jaw completely shattered.

They move quickly, sticking to the shadows. Goemon murmurs quietly when he notices movement – Jigen trusts him to keep their backs safe. Two large figures bar their way when they turn down a side-street. One of them starts to move when they recognise them, starts to yell – likely to alert people to their location. Jigen’s pistol barks twice, and both bodies fall – with no vocal cords they will be making no noise.

Goemon stops briefly to inspect the bodies as they jog past. Jigen slows down as well when he notices the irregularities in their attire. These aren’t regular hitmen, the masks they wear remind Jigen too closely of the high-ranking assassins he’d seen in passing when he’d first been hired by the triad. If they were sending these people after him, they certainly wanted him dead.

They get maybe half a block before Goemon grunts out a warning. He leaps from behind Jigen, and lands on a windowsill, overbalancing a tall figure that had emerged. Jigen hears the familiar scrape of metal that indicates Zantetsuken is being drawn, followed by a screech that says it’s met resistance. Jigen stops and looks for a wall to put his back against, he finds one and sure enough, from the shadows emerge more and more bodies. He slams down his bag and starts to fire, balancing his revolver in one hand while he grabs for a speed loader with the other.

Bodies drop around him, and he can see Goemon wreaking havoc on those who stand back and try their luck from a distance. The smell of blood starts to permeate the air, when Jigen takes a breath in, all he can taste is copper.

Jigen shoulders the bag once more and they run, they haven’t got far to go until they reach the car, and then they can drive too far for any assassins to catch them by foot. Two figures are waiting by the vehicle, one of them turns and starts to run towards them – but Goemon leaps and catches him, cutting him down where he stands. The second smaller figure turns as well and starts to run towards Jigen himself, two blades drawn and ready to fight. On autopilot, Jigen lifts his gun, and pulls the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

And a third time in the forehead.

The figure falls, the porcelain mask over its face shattered and lying in pieces beside it.

Jigen pulls up short when he gets closer. Had the mask not been shattered he probably wouldn’t have bothered. The triads hired assassins of all shapes and sizes after all – but this one. This one was tiny, even by usual adult standards.

Goemon is beside him then, staring impassively at the corpse in front of him. Jigen can feel something that feels an awful lot like regret start to claw up his oesophagus. He drops to his knees and searches the body for ID, something that will tell him that he’s mistaken.

He finds a crumpled photo of his face, along with the reward price. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for. With shaking fingers, he holds up the card, tries to concentrate enough to read the words.

_Jiang Liu – age: sixteen years._

Goemon takes the card from him, and exhales, whistling the air through his teeth. A hand touches his shoulder.

“Jigen,” the samurai begins, but Jigen doesn’t hear anything else. He stands, unable to look at the face any longer and empties the contents of his stomach over a nearby gutter.

“Jigen,” Goemon says again, arm solid around his waist, “Jigen we need to go. He chose his fate; you are not to blame.”

Without thinking Jigen finds himself in the car and they’re speeding away from the scene of destruction they’ve left behind. Despite the distance they’re putting between themselves and the bodies, Jigen can still taste bitter bile in his mouth, sliding down his throat, chilling him from the inside out.

He hears Goemon speaking, but he can’t make out the words.

They take the left turn that takes them out of the city and lightning lights up the sky in front of them. Thunder rumbles, shaking the vehicle and it sounds like despair.


	27. Repair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E for explicitness - descriptions of violence and sex

Jigen says nothing on the way back. He doesn’t have to. His expression when he’d peeled back the broken mask of his assailant had said enough. He was pacing relentlessly in the living room, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and Goemon could do nothing but watch for the second time in their friendship as the gunman fell apart (although to be fair, he hadn’t personally witnessed the first breakdown after Lupin had died – but hearing it second-hand was bad enough).

* * *

Shadows dance in the corners of the dark room like the shadows that danced along the edges of the kid’s mask – making him look bigger and older than he actually was. The thought makes bile rise in Jigen’s throat.

He searches frantically for the bottle – chases down the sour bile with a mouthful of poison. He feels the scotch leak into his belly, settle under bones. It’s not enough. Thunder rumbles in the distance, heralding the arrival of a storm, despite the fact it’s already been raining for what seems like hours.

_For a single moment he’s six again, watching dark clouds roll over the desert, bringing stinging winds, and biting rain with them. He’s waiting for his pa – has been for days. He just wants his ma to stop crying. The masked kid would have had a pa too, and it’s him that will be the one waiting now. Waiting for his son who won’t return._

Jigen doesn’t hear the crack of wood as he opens the door. Doesn’t hear Goemon speak as he races outside just in time to see a bright flash of lightning light up the sky, followed by a body-shaking roll of thunder that he can _feel_ vibrate through his veins.

_Light travels faster than sound. When he’d fired, the kid would have seen the flash of the magnum, then he would have heard the shot. And then there would have been nothing._

_Nothing._

Jigen sinks to his knees. The grass is wet, and will only continue to get worse as the rain continues to hammer relentlessly down.

 _‘I told you so’_ the thunder roars, quietly at first, building to an unbearable crescendo, so loud Jigen thinks he might tear apart from the sheer force of it.

Jigen has never considered himself a saint. He’s maintained his sanity (what’s left of it), by upholding a strict moral code for himself, and himself alone. He doesn’t kill indiscriminately, he doesn’t kill people who don’t deserve it, and he doesn’t kill children.

_He didn’t kill children._

He’s been called a monster before, but tonight is the first night in his life that he agrees that he’s earned that title.

The cold-water seeps through the thin fabric of his dress shirt, and numbs him from the outside in. The rain doesn’t sting half as much as it does when it’s combined with dry New Mexico desert sand and despite the fact that’s it’s infinitely more chilling, it’s less than he deserves.

* * *

Jigen doesn’t respond when Goemon calls his name from the door. He doesn’t move from his kneeling position, the relentless rain beating down upon him, sticking his long dark hair to his face and neck.

Thunder rumbles ominously overhead. Goemon might not be able to do much for Jigen’s mental descent – but he can ensure that he doesn’t continue to have his breakdown out here in the dark, and the cold. Goemon shivers as he walks out in the frigid rain. He’ll pull Jigen back inside forcefully if he has to.

* * *

Goemon’s arms wrap around his waist and Jigen shudders.

_Strong arms rip his jacket off, pain blossoms out from his shoulder. And then, those same arms are around his chest, suffocating him, crushing him, and it’s not right – can’t he see that Jigen needs to run forward because Lupin – Lupin is –_

Goemon is _warm_ , a solid wall of heat against Jigen’s back, moulding into place, and Jigen didn’t know that warmth could feel _this good_.

_When had he gotten so cold anyway? He hadn’t been that cold before, or maybe Goemon was always this warm and he’d just never noticed…_

Jigen leans back into the enveloping furnace and it feels like he might burn up just from the proximity. If only he could. If only he could.

Goemon is manoeuvring him, but he doesn’t care. The samurai can do as he pleases, as long as he continues to provide this scorching, purifying heat.

* * *

When Jigen presses suddenly and completely back against him, Goemon can’t ignore it. The cold that radiates off the gunman’s back is so intense it burns. He shouldn’t have given the stupid man the benefit of the doubt when he’d first run out the door. It was not a warm time of year anyway, and spending even half the time Jigen had in the rain and the cold could not be good for anyone’s health. Goemon grits his teeth and continues to move, holding the sagging gunman upright. This was merely another mountain – he would surpass it, as he has done all the others.

“Come, Jigen,” he murmurs, as he drags unwilling legs up across the threshold of the house, into the blessed warm darkness. Jigen’s head lolls against his shoulder, wet hair leaving rivulets of water it its wake.

* * *

Jigen is aware of his body the same way that one is aware that they are in a vehicle.

_Maybe, this is it? Maybe this is the time that Daisuke Jigen finally – finally snaps?_

He can feel the slow trickle of sensation returning to his limbs, lighting up his nerves like lightning. He can hear Goemon’s low voice in his ear, grounding him.

Goemon is steady like a rock against his back, still burning hot against his skin. No, against his shirt, but Goemon was so warm he’d probably dried the shirt simply by virtue of being there. Then the world shifts and the back of Jigen’s knees hit something soft ( _softer than Goemon, but nowhere near as warm)._ His shirt is getting peeled off, and all of a sudden, the cold is back in force, prickling his skin with millions of tiny icicles only now it _hurts,_ because before he had the enveloping warmth of Goemon to chase the cold away and now he’s _gone_ –

He hears Goemon’s voice and chases it with his fingers. The tips of his fingers burn and shatter as they find a warm collarbone and he yanks the samurai down against his shivering frame without any thought towards the consequences. He’d never realised how much he needed warmth until now – this unfiltered heat bleeding through his chest, twisting up and down his spine, pushing out of his mouth with tiny tremulous hisses of breath.

_Was this what Fujiko sought in Goemon? Did he wrap himself around her and let his blistering body heat, his solid presence, do the comforting when she was upset, or scared, or lonely? Is this why she loved him? If it was, Jigen could understand why -_

Lupin was no longer here, to coax him out from the abyss with honeyed words, coy glances and soft, muted affections even when Jigen looked the other way, ignored them for what they really were. Now Jigen’s only hope is Goemon. Rock solid Goemon. There would be no honeyed words from the samurai, but he was tangible, and real, and warm, and right there.

When Lupin had guided Jigen out of the depths of his psyche in the past, the thief had snuck in, and with Jigen’s hand in his own, and a self-assured grin on his face, they’d snuck out – the demons none the wiser. There would be no sneaking around with Goemon. Goemon kicked locked doors open, and punched holes through stone walls when they were in his way.

A hand brushes damp hair away from Jigen’s face in a way that’s much too tender. He doesn’t deserve this soft touch, not now – not ever. But the tenderness is so warm, and Jigen can’t decide if he wants to run away, or let it consume him entirely. He feels every shuddered breath Goemon takes, the scent of storms and woods still clinging to the samurai’s skin, mixing with the smell of damp sweat and adrenaline. It’s breathtaking and grounding and Jigen wants nothing more than to lose himself in it.

* * *

Even Jigen’s breath is cold when he presses his damp face into Goemon’s neck. The arms that had him in a crushing hold loosen – and Goemon fights to let out a shaky breath as the gunman nuzzles further into his neck.

“Jigen…?”

His hands are creeping under the fabric of Goemon’s kimono, leaving icy cold tendrils in their wake. It’s his first instinct to arch up under the fingers, to lengthen his neck so Jigen can continue to press open mouthed, barely-there kisses against a pulse point, because _this,_ is something they both want, Goemon knows – they just haven’t put words to it yet. He’s devastatingly aware that Jigen _might_ just be looking for comfort, might just be reaching out for the warmth of someone else’s touch ( _and Goemon is the closest warm body_ ), and he doesn’t want to look too deeply into how much that stings just yet.

Jigen splays a freezing palm across Goemon’s back and Goemon is suddenly viciously reminded of ‘ _why_ ’ he’d pushed Jigen onto the bed to start with. To get him out of these water-logged clothes – and to try and coax him out of whatever barren wasteland his mind was currently inhabiting.

“Jigen,” he says again, leaning up, willing Jigen to meet his eyes, “What are you – What do you want?

Did Jigen even know what he was doing? The gunman had been so erratic since they returned it was hard to tell.

Jigen’s gaze focuses somewhere over Goemon’s shoulder, and he feels the man tense up underneath him. He has barely a moment to prepare for the shove that sends him flying off the bed, onto the unforgiving hard wood of the floor.

* * *

Goemon’s body hits the floor with a thud that sounds much too loud considering the size of him. The sound only serves to hone in Jigen’s focus acutely on his terrible, terrible decisions – too many to count.

This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t allowed. Jigen was a killer. A murderer. Lupin had been getting closer, and closer, and closer, and now he was _dead_. Jigen tainted the people he touched and he couldn’t allow himself to do that to Goemon. He couldn’t see the samurai become twisted like him, until he too died, and then Fujiko would be left with no-one but Jigen, and _that_ was a fate that no-one deserved.

“Get out.” The words are snapped out, sharp and unforgiving, like the floor at Goemon’s back.

* * *

Goemon stands fluidly, equal parts disappointed and relieved. This is more like the Jigen he knows – this anger is familiar, something he never thought he’d be glad to see. There might be an inch between their heights at the best of times; but in this half dark room, Goemon towers over the gunman’s shaking form.

“No. You are not well.”

* * *

“I’m fine,” Jigen insists trying to temper his words with a tone of indifference. He doesn’t know what he needs, only that he can’t think when Goemon is there right in front of him. He needs space, time, to separate himself from the killer inside him, threatening to take over – and Goemon is here, complicating everything. Jigen’s control is fraying apart at the seams. He can see the threads unravelling in front of his very eyes with each stern baritone word.

“Get out,” he says again, but it sounds like a desperate plea instead of the order it’s meant to be, and he knows Goemon hears it and is probably confused because Jigen _doesn’t_ beg, ever. 

“Jigen…”

It’s a struggle, but he keeps the blank-faced wall up. The drawbridge remains tightly closed and the icy moat surrounding him stays full, and deep. He’s an impenetrable fortress.

* * *

Unfortunately for Jigen, Goemon has never minded swimming – and cold water surrounding the gunman is merely a challenge that he has yet to overcome.

Jigen folds his arms, trying to ground himself. Not for the first time, Goemon wishes it were Fujiko here instead of him. She would know what to say, to try and coax the gunman out – Goemon thinks a lot, but he falls down when it comes to expressing himself. He is much better suited to showing by actions.

If Jigen had a broken bone, Goemon knew how to splint limbs to minimize damage and pain. If Jigen’s skin was lacerated and bleeding, he knew how to fashion tourniquets out of clothing, he knew how to field suture skin to stem the tide of blood. But today Jigen has no injuries – at least, none that are visible to the naked eye. Goemon hasn’t got the first clue how to splint the mind to stop it from fracturing further – he doesn’t know where to press the bandages to stem the tidal flow of oppressive thoughts. He can’t _fix_ this.

He knows though, that he can’t in good faith leave his friend the way he is. Not when he is so obviously _‘not fine’_ , even when he spits out lies that say otherwise, lies to try and push him away. Jigen might be stubborn, but he has no idea what he’s getting himself into - engaging in a battle of wills with the samurai.

There would only be one victor, and it was not going to be Jigen.

Goemon takes a tentative step towards his shaking friend.

* * *

Jigen pulls away when Goemon moves forward. For each step the samurai takes into his space, Jigen takes two back. He can’t let Goemon stay, because if he does and he sees Jigen hit rock bottom ( _and oh, he is perilously close to that point_ ) then it’s an absolute certainty that Goemon will leave and never return. No-one returns after looking into the inky depths that make the blackest of coffee look like amber honey.

That kind of darkness bleeds into you after a while and the longer Goemon stays, the more unstable Jigen feels.

Dark eyes filled with friendly concern morph into eyes of accusation. The tiny crow lines at the edges of Goemon’s eyes disappear, making him look younger, and younger, and –

_Jigen never missed. That was his claim to fame – he never missed. Maybe there was a scream, but he wouldn’t know, because gunfire is loud. And when he peels off the broken pieces of the mask, the blood leaks out of the wound in the centre of the pale forehead, oozes through the holes in the boy’s chest, coppery, bitter and suffocating…_

* * *

Jigen’s face is mostly blank, but his eyes are a well of information – and Goemon can see the swirling emotion bubbling below the surface. They’re in a dangerous position – one wrong move from either has the potential to spiral the room down into something truly ugly – a mirror of that first night, full of shattered glass and bleeding fists.

Goemon prides himself on his control, over both his body and his mind. He’s honed it over years of rigorous training and discipline. If Jigen can’t or won’t handle this situation – then Goemon will do it for him, because that is what loyal friends are for. He’ll shoulder this burden, and muscle his way through Jigen’s defences whether he likes it or not.

“You require assistance Jigen. Let me help you. Let me be here for you.”

Jigen’s gaze narrows. He backs up further, shaking his head. Goemon steels himself for the inevitable blow.

“This isn’t something you can _help_ with, Goemon. You can’t _handle_ this.” Jigen spits the words out, back against the wall, the lines of his body coiled and tensed like some sort of caged feral animal.

Goemon doesn’t care. He can zone out Jigen’s growls, and a bite or two is nothing he hasn’t faced before. He takes a step closer.

“You are wrong. I am capable of handling anything.”

* * *

The words are not the overconfident brag of a young buck with more testosterone than sense. When Goemon says those words, he says them with blunted confidence of a man who has already handled a lot – and intends to go through a lot more before he reaches his limit. The words are a promise, and they strike a cold chord of fear through the centre of Jigen’s chest.

It’s too much.

Goemon is too close.

He’s so close he burns, and as he does so, his face melts into the face of the kid’s and Jigen can’t take it anymore. He lunges forward, and comes directly into contact with the hard-solid surface of Goemon’s fists.

Heat and pain rip down Jigen’s back as he gets slammed into the unrelenting wood of the wall behind him. His hands are pinned by his neck and his breath catches in his throat. His wrists ache where Goemon grips them ( _and for a moment he thinks Goemon might actually be made of stone, because Jigen is strong, but Jigen can’t move-_ ). He’s trapped now, the strong lines of Goemon’s body keeping him in place, and then all he can feel once more is scorching, searing heat.

_Why had he shoved Goemon away to begin with, when if he’d just let him stay, Jigen could be nothing but ash by now?_

The heat from Goemon’s body flows through him, tangling with the painful sensation of being pressed against the unforgiving wooden surface, and before he knows what he’s doing, he arches into the tight hold. Goemon’s grip squeezes his wrists, nails make half-moon shapes in soft skin and then it’s a heady unsatisfying mixture of heat, and pain, and raw need that rockets through him out of nowhere and Jigen is shaking again, though finally no longer from the cold.

“Jigen…”

Goemon’s voice is low against Jigen’s ear, setting fire to the coals that have been smouldering in his gut since he first pulled the samurai against him when he’d manhandled him towards the bed. A guttural groan escapes his chest when he finally realises that Goemon _understands_.

“Is this – is this what you really want right now?”

Jigen sucks in a breath – because for a brief second it sounds like Goemon is going to say he can’t do it.

_And he doesn’t know what he wants or needs, but he needs something – and right now that something is Goemon, because Goemon is chasing away the cold. He’s getting in the way of Jigen decompressing but that might not be a bad thing – because Goemon is here slicing through defences and cauterising them at the same time and it hurts, but in such a good way._

_He can’t remove the face of the child, it’s burned into his retinas, but maybe – just maybe, Goemon can pull the curtains over it for a short while. Just long enough for Jigen to fall apart and put himself back together again so he can deal with the consequences of his damning, damning, actions._

* * *

Jigen’s pupils are blown wide, and Goemon can feel the whipcord muscles tensing and flexing against his fingers. His erratic actions are changing course almost too quickly to keep up with. Movement with intent to harm one moment, pressing forward with a guttural noise that is _anything_ but angry the next.

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous,” If you aren’t going to do this.”

He punctuates the words by arching further into Goemon. The heat from his exposed chest sears Goemon’s skin.

“Then you need to leave me be. _Now_.”

There’s a fine line between passion and violence, and Goemon treads it very carefully. This is uncharted territory, this gunman who can’t quite seem to grasp the difference at the moment between bruising in anger or bruising in love. This gunman who’s stuck somewhere deep in the depths of his psyche, still grieving for a friend, freshly grieving for a child, battling old demons and new at the same time, and chasing a closing door to the outside of his mind in the distance.

Jigen is waiting for an answer, the look in his eyes blurring between heated need and unbridled anger. Goemon hasn’t got the words for him. He doesn’t know what to say. He can show him though. He can be the pillar that Jigen throws himself against in anger if he needs to be. He has sat for days under waterfalls, and has not once been shaken – an angry emotional gunman stands no chance at breaking him, and he will gladly take the bruises.

He can stand tall when Jigen falls to his knees. He can pick the gunman up and carry him in his own strong arms until the gunman can walk on his own two feet once more. The burden of a friend in need is one Goemon will gladly bear over and over again.

“Well?” Jigen says, “You think you can make me forget what I am or not?”

It’s a thinly veiled challenge underneath the deadpanned words. _“Go on, leave me too”_ is what he’s saying, but Goemon won’t do that.

“What are you?” he asks, and Jigen’s eyes snap to him.

“You know what I am,” the gunman says bluntly, through gritted teeth.

“No,” Goemon pushes back against resistant forearms, “Tell me, what you are.”

“A child-killer.” The words are grunted out, but something drains a little more behind the gunman’s eyes, right there in front of Goemon.

“You did, your job,” Goemon says firmly, refusing to drop Jigen’s gaze. The gunman wilts a little more underneath him, but doesn’t acknowledge the statement.

“Make me forget, just for tonight.” He says instead, and this time there’s no pretence that the statement isn’t a desperate plea. No confusion about _what_ Jigen wants from this arrangement. Goemon knows that being in a heightened state of emotion can play games with arousal, but the way Jigen looks at him, the way he presses deliberately against his thigh – this is no game.

No. Goemon has a duty now – to either stay until Jigen can find his way out on his own, or walk in, take the gunman’s hand, and guide him out himself. He lifts a hand and tilts Jigen’s chin up, exposing the long line of his neck. The gunman shudders under his grip. Goemon can see from his expression he was expecting ( _perhaps he even wanted_ ) to be kissed ( _like they did on the couch, drunk and soft, so many months ago – like he wanted to when they were so close on the mattress, laughing at staticky jokes and grainy images),_ but those types of kisses are reserved for altercations of love and affection and this is none of those. This is hoarse, and needy and Jigen wanting to be taken apart to forget. This is Jigen wanting to be reminded that he can still feel, can still cry, can still fuck, despite the bone deep despair that sits in his body. And if it takes a certain kind of violence to break down those walls and remind Jigen of all of those things. If it takes a certain kind of violence to drag him back out of the pit that he’s locked himself in…

Well, Goemon is no stranger to violence.

Goemon shoves him back against the wall with just enough force to make a sound, and moves in to scrape his teeth over his exposed carotid pulse point. He sucks the skin of Jigen’s neck into his mouth hard enough to bruise.

Goemon is a finely-honed weapon of mass destruction. He’s 140 pounds of solid muscle wrapped up in a hakama and has the skill to kill a man thirty ways with his bare hands alone. Not tonight though. Tonight, he will do his best to be a tool to fix, despite his glaring lack of experience in the area.

* * *

Jigen feels the split-second that Goemon makes his decision. The next thing he feels is the line of pain up his spine as his back hits the wall again, and the blessed return of the warmth of Goemon’s body as it presses against him. The sensations tangle together and it’s not until he feels Goemon’s fingers slide to unbuckle his belt that that he realises he has control of both of his hands again. He squeezes a shoulder that’s as solid as the wall behind him, and screws his eyes closed as Goemon’s lips make their way roughly up his jawline.

He tries to capture the warm lips with his own, to try and drink in some of Goemon’s scorching heat, but the samurai shoves his head to the side, making his neck twinge.

“We aren’t doing that tonight.” Goemon growls decisively from down near his collarbone and Jigen feels like his bones might melt.

Jigen is already achingly hard and when Goemon palms him roughly through the fabric of his trousers, it’s just the right mix of pleasure and pain to make him shudder and shake against the assault. The samurai peels off wet clothes, making Jigen shiver as cool air touches humid skin. He gets pushed none too gently towards the bed and then Goemon makes quick work of his own clothes – expression impossible to read in the dim light.

The rain continues to hammer down, getting louder and louder. The thunder that had rolled away was now back in full force. A flash of lightning illuminates Goemon’s form as he climbs onto the bed, locking Jigen’s hips in place, staring down at him with a heavy gaze.

Goemon touches him with a bluntness that doesn’t reach his eyes. He kisses his way violently down Jigen’s neck, sucking hard and leaving aching bruises when he moves against him – yet when Jigen meets his gaze he finds nothing but unguarded tenderness in the dark irises. He must be looking for a fault line in Jigen’s skin as he continues to travel south – looking for the fracture that will lead him deeper into the scarred core of the gunman. Jigen doesn’t know whether he intends to seal it up when he finds it, or rip it wide open, and he can’t find itself in him to care – as long as he keeps directing Jigen’s focus away from the storm raging inside him. The one that’s as violent and loud as its counterpart on the other side of the window.

When he says softly, “ _Jigen, do you have…”_ something splinters because there’s too much care, too much tenderness in that request. Tenderness that doesn’t belong here in the arms of a child-killer. He tries to say no, tries to convince Goemon otherwise but the samurai isn’t having any of it.

“Not negotiable,” he says firmly, and Jigen splinters inside a little more before gesturing vaguely to the far side of the bed.

Goemon’s skin tastes like salt and rain, sharp against Jigen’s tongue as he reaches what he can from his position on his back. He reaches for a handhold, for purchase, but finds none against the samurai’s smooth skin. He reaches instead between them, where Goemon’s cock hangs heavy in the hollow of his hip, next to his and tries to grip them both despite the angle. Goemon bats his hand away, fingers gripping tightly around the wrist, pulling it up out of reach.

“If you want me to do this,” he says, eyes glittering intently, “Then _let me_. Trust me.”

Goemon is heavy over him, unwavering in his assault as his free hand maps the body below him, fingers skittering across a scarred torso, lower and lower until-

“Fuck,” Jigen groans out before he can stop himself, as Goemon grips him tightly and pulls upwards with a steady torturous squeeze.

Goemon’s breath is hot against his neck as he squeezes him again, his tongue wet, vicious teeth feel sharper than knives as they nip at sensitive skin. Jigen is unravelling. Goemon’s fingers burn as they grip him, first alone, and then together –

“Trust me, Jigen.” He murmurs against a collarbone and it’s like Goemon is highlighting his flaws, tracing them with a quick tongue, sealing them with murmured promises, too soft to hear, just loud enough to feel.

The same words over, and over as Goemon travels down his broken, needy body.

 _Trust me_ , over an old bullet wound on a shoulder.

 _Trust me,_ tracing a knife scar from a back-alley deal gone wrong.

 _Trust me,_ where a friend had said one thing, and meant another, and left a sharp piece of metal in Jigen’s stomach to remind him of his mistakes.

 _Trust me,_ _trust me, trust me._

Lord help him, Jigen does. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t trust easily. But he does trust the samurai who came back for him.

Slick fingers press into him, so careful and deliberate in their movements that they drag a gasp from him that he can’t control. The fingers scissor, stretching and twisting until Jigen isn’t sure he can take any more, and then Goemon goes deeper, still searching for the fault line. He crooks his fingers with deadly precision and when his other hand reaches for the root of Jigen’s cock and pulls, it rips a hoarse moan from the back of his throat, vibrating down his body, shattering the walls he’s pulled up around himself.

Goemon surrounds him, absolving, consuming. Jigen doesn’t think, can’t think. The only awareness he has is the heat of Goemon pressing into him, inch by inch, driving the very breath from his lungs.

* * *

Jigen is torturously tight, slick heat catching Goemon’s breath with every press, throbbing around him in hot pulses, testing his tenuous control. No matter how difficult though, he would stay in control – because every tiny movement drove home just _how_ important it was to get this right tonight.

He had torn down barriers, burnt through Jigen’s defences and now it was his responsibility, his duty to make sure they were repaired.

Sheathed to the hilt, it hits him. _This_ was really happening. It was _him_. Inside Jigen. He was responsible for the flickering vulnerability across the gunman’s face, responsible for the needy noises falling from his mouth that he would _never_ make under normal circumstances.

* * *

Jigen looks up at Goemon’s face, so far above him, hard length splitting him open, laying him bare and open for the taking. There’s still too much tenderness in that gaze, tenderness that no amount of brusque words can hide.

It doesn’t hurt though, there’s only blissful heat and stretching and it’s almost a shame, because if it hurt then Jigen could focus on something other than this heat in his chest that’s rising in an inferno when he looks up into Goemon’s eyes.

“ _Move_ ”

Because if Goemon starts moving – starts _fucking,_ then he can lose himself. He can get lost in the desperate motions, the scratch and pull of skin against skin, lips parting and breathless moans, where blood and corpses no longer matter, no longer rise to the forefront of his mind. When nothing matters but the mindless rutting and the friction rises to fever pitch, forcing everything else out.

Goemon shudders above him and begins to move with a slow drag that is both too much and not enough, all at the same time. Thunder rumbles around them, chasing lightning, but they’re insulated inside the house. Jigen pulls Goemon down to his chest, breathes him in as he moves slowly, deeper, and deeper. He smells like rain, and sex and sweat and something sharp. The embodiment of petrichor; musky, earthy and _oh so real_.

A hand slides down his hip and the angle changes, first for the worse, and then for the better. Goemon’s search is over as he finds the spot that has Jigen arching beneath him, twisting out curse words between gritted teeth. Hands reach under the creases of his knees, and then Goemon is leaning back and sliding in _even deeper_ , a low grunt shooting straight to Jigen’s core every time he bottoms out inside him.

He grips at an arm, a hip, anything to give the faint idea of purchase while he’s shaking ( _in pain or pleasure, he can’t tell the difference as he bites down on his lip, coppery blood filling his mouth as Goemon hits that spot again, and again)_. Bright white lightning illuminates Goemon above him and Jigen stops breathing for a second because the samurai is _ethereal_.

Lightning flashes again and Jigen vaguely registers that there’s been no thunder yet, which can only mean one of two things – the storm is moving away or its closer than ever. Goemon watches him with a dark knowing gaze and Jigen feels like he’s caught in the eye. Rain buffets the walls around them, a thin layer of wood the only thing protecting them from the torrential rain. Just like Goemon is the only thing protecting him from the storm in his mind, although paradoxically he’s also the one drawing Jigen closer and closer to the edge of unravelling and isn’t that just like the samurai?

_A walking beacon of inner peace with the fury of a thousand thunderstorms just waiting underneath the surface. Hard as steel and soft as velvet in the same touch depending on who needs the contact –_

And Jigen needs. He needs desperately.

Deafening thunder crashes around them, louder than any gunfire – only adding to the sensory overload of having Goemon around him, inside him, stroking him in tandem with his thrusts until there’s nothing but heat burning, fire building inside of him – too large for his body.

_And that’s another paradox isn’t it – how Jigen is burning up under Goemon while the storm that should have extinguished him, rages on outside._

It expands upwards too quickly, scorching him in pleasure and in pain, twisting up through his stomach, punches its way into his chest until it leaves through his mouth in a resounding moan. And just when he thinks it’s gone, that the fire has burned out, Goemon stokes it once more and it builds and builds until it’s nothing but a bonfire, too large for the rain to extinguish now.

It’s too much - he reaches for Goemon, grips tightly as the last of his control is driven away. He trembles like a leaf in the wind, but Goemon has him, Goemon steadies him, and then the scorching, purifying heat leaps through him once more ( _cauterising in its intensity, burning anything but thoughts of pleasure and Goemon from his mind)_ and he’s _coming_ , coming, coming apart between them with a broken sigh.

Goemon shudders above him, squeezing his eyes shut as he comes apart, gracefully, filling him, his own heat throbbing inside, so similar to the heat that burned Jigen up from the inside out, yet so different. He drops down onto his elbows, his face burrowing into the crook of Jigen’s neck as he exhales with a heavy moan.

His heart is beating just as fast as Jigen’s is.

“Thank you,” he whispers because Goemon has done exactly what he asked, even if he had qualms about the question. He’s pulled the curtains and Jigen can see clearly again now. Even though it _hurts_ to know what he’s done, he can step back, he’s not bound to his decisions any longer. They are separate from him once more.

Goemon doesn’t answer verbally, but his hand does cup Jigen’s cheek, thumb rubbing tenderly across the skin where his beard begins.

* * *

It feels monumental, this moment. Jigen’s damp cheek under his fingertips, hair still sweaty as he pushes it back gently.

A mountain surpassed, perhaps not in the most calculated manner, but surpassed it was, nonetheless.

When he moves his arm Jigen’s grip around his wrist tightens.

“Stay?”

The word comes out in a hoarse whisper, and Goemon can make out the gunman’s face just before he turns his head away. What kind of men had Jigen had before this, in times like this – if he had to ask with such uncertainty?

“Of course,” he murmurs and Jigen visibly relaxes, broadcasting his emotions more than usual on his angular features.

Goemon moves so that he can surround Jigen without suffocating him, legs tangling in the pushed down sheets. It occurs to him briefly that he should clean up, or do something of that nature, but his eyelids are already heavy and Jigen sags back against him in a way that makes it even harder to move.

He will deal with the aftermath in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Don't deal with your problems by having sex kiddo's - it's not healthy
> 
> No one:  
> Absolutely no one:  
> Me: *writes 6k words of angsty emotional smut*
> 
> Merry Christmas!


	28. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all might have thought I was gone - jokes on you, I'm back babyyy!

Jigen wakes to a warm feeling behind him. When he reaches back, his fingers touch skin and in a heartbeat the previous night comes flooding back.

The job. The chase. The deaths. Goemon. _Goemon._

The samurai in question shifts behind him – grumbling in his sleep. They ended up back to back during the night. That’s eerily telling, and not something Jigen wants to look into right now. Not when scorching body heat, so comforting in the dark of night, has become suffocating.

When Jigen stands – a little stiffly but understandable, given the circumstances – Goemon cracks open an eye that looks much to sharp to belong to a man who was almost sleep talking mere minutes ago.

“Are you okay?”

Jigen considers the question. Considers himself, half naked, covered in bruises, itching for nicotine and ethanol.

“I’ve been worse,” he says ( _lies_ ), and Goemon hums, closing the eye briefly before he also sits up, swinging lean legs out from the sheet. He stretches, and Jigen feels like he needs to avert his eyes – now that he’s looking at the samurai in the light of day.

It vaguely crosses his mind that maybe they should _talk_ about what happened. That they should maybe discuss how Goemon fucking Jigen brutally into a mattress was going to affect their working dynamic. That maybe they should discuss how unstable Jigen felt, how unstable Jigen still feels, even though its now muted, back in its box in the corner of his mind.

Then Goemon meets his gaze with a small smile and kind eyes – and like the coward that he is – Jigen runs.

Goemon finds him in the kitchen, lacing his coffee with whiskey. He raises a single eyebrow, but says nothing. The small action makes Jigen feel like a failure, even though it’s the same action that had been directed at him since the samurai arrived. _But it’s different now._

Is this how it’s going to be? This was why Jigen didn’t sleep with people he worked with – to avoid awkward mornings after. While he stands, frozen by the weight of his indecision, Goemon continues to trudge along in his morning routine, doling out rice into a small dish and eating it in silence.

_Before, the silence was comforting – the quiet warmth of another person sharing a space. Now, it’s deafening._

For minutes, the only sound is Goemon’s chopsticks against the sides of his bowl, and the whirlwind rush of Jigen’s thoughts.

_And if they were bad before, they were worse now – because now, in the light of day and devastatingly sober, Jigen can see the previous night for what it truly was. A cheap distraction from his own mind and it may have worked, but at what cost. Goemon was a high price to pay for sanity. Jigen would have been better off wallowing in his own filth instead of dragging the samurai down with him._

It’s maddening.

He’s about to say something, anything, to pierce the cloud of white noise surrounding them, when Goemon places his chopsticks neatly across his bowl and clears his throat.

“There is a shrine I would like to visit. It is not far.”

Thrown completely for the loop, Jigen stares. Goemon shoots him a confused half-smile.

“I suggest we go today, then return here for the night before we move on – if that is acceptable?”

He’d thought. Well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought now – when Goemon was clearly waiting for an answer. Not that he had one.

“Shouldn’t we uh-“ the rest of Jigen’s sentence trails off as Goemon raises his eyebrow again. “-talk?” he finishes lamely, feeling out of place in his own kitchen.

“Regarding last night?”

Hard-hitting, straight to the point, as per usual.

“Do you have regrets? If so, that is understandable…”

Jigen cuts him off before he can continue. He _lies_. “No. No regrets. Not about what happened.”

“O-kay?” Goemon’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is laced with confusion.

The kitchen floor suddenly feels unsteady under Jigen’s feet. _(Like quicksand, it’s dragging him down by the knees and he’s floundering, all while the samurai watches.)_

“What did you wish to speak about then?”

And though Jigen grabs the question with both hands, he still can’t formulate a response. He has questions, assumptions, bubbling to the surface but they disappear when they reach his tongue.

“Would you have done it – to anyone?”

Then he curses himself because he didn’t mean his words to come out so incriminating and needy. Daisuke Jigen isn’t needy – he doesn’t need a damn thing – except for nicotine, and alcohol to disinfect the demons coursing through his veins like viruses. Although, maybe one day he should give it up – maybe that would be the way he would go? Shivering and shaking through withdrawal after withdrawal as his body finally cracked from the years of abuse.

“Would I fuck just anyone?” Jigen flushes at the unfamiliar crass words leaving the samurai’s mouth. “Or would I have fucked anyone in your position?”

“Both” Jigen chokes out, and chases down the embarrassing admission with coffee that’s more whiskey than caffeine.

“No.” Goemon says simply, “and no. I do not make a habit of sleeping with emotionally vulnerable people.”

With that one blunt statement Jigen can see clearly in his minds eye how they crash and burn through miscommunication. Now that he’s no longer floating- _drowning_ in despair, there’s room in his bones for anger – anger that rises up, familiar and hot, even when it’s uncalled for. Logically he knows that Goemon means no offence.

But logic has no place in the barren mental wasteland Jigen has been inhabiting for the last six months. Logic dulls the sharp edge of emotion that kept Jigen going through nights that he thought would never end.

“What am I then, a charity case?”

Goemon’s eyes flicker up to meet him head on, surely hearing and noting the animosity that claws its way up the gunman’s’ throat.

“A pity-fuck? Maybe you should have just fucking left when you turned up Goemon?”

His voice is getting louder, fire and brimstone scratching against his vocal cords.

“What kind of honour do you have? If you’ll do that, but you won’t put me out of my misery?”

Goemon stares impassively and Jigen is filled with the sudden animalistic urge to do _something_ , anything to put a sliver of expression onto that blank canvas.

_He could paint it black and blue with bruises like the stormy sky until the only lights are the whites of his eyes and the sharp vicious points of his teeth. He could spread bright crimson across it, shades of red like a sunset. Dusky pink skin, turned rusty red and finally a dark venous maroon. Unbidden an image rises to the front of his mind, the smell of copper and metallic cerebrospinal fluid fills his nostrils. Seven millimetres is all that protects the brain from the outside world. Seven millimetres is nothing to shatter with the right tools. Even a small bullet will do the trick, a large pipe, a brick. Without that seven millimetres, death is imminent. A stone-cold fact. And much like a stone, within minutes a body will become pale, until it is grey, indistinguishable from the rocks behind it._

“We have discussed already why I will not take your life,” Goemon is saying evenly, ripping Jigen viciously back to the present. He stands and the legs of his chair scratch and grate against Jigen’s nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard – making him grit his teeth.

He does note, with a grim, dissociative displeasure that Goemon doesn’t acknowledge his questions. He already aches all over; from the fighting, from the fucking, and when Goemon meets his gaze head-on, it’s like the pain migrates. It’s like Goemon has shoved the Zantetsuken hilt deep into his chest.

He had _trusted_ him.

Jigen’s hand hasn’t completely healed yet, the scabs stretch and fracture when he clenches his hand into a fist.

He see’s Goemon’s eyes flicker down. The back of his hand stings as the fresh blood leaks forth. They’re locked in orbit for the second time in less than twenty-four hours only this time Jigen isn’t struggling to breathe; nor is he freezing, numb from the inside out, chasing Goemon’s bright white heat. There is no ice to melt away now, only two rock solid inferno’s – and when they meet in the middle it will be with an almighty thunderous crash and –

Jigen’s back hits the wall. One of his hands is still balled in a fist, dripping crimson – the other reaches out and grabs at nothing in the empty space of the doorway. Goemon’s fingers burn against the bare skin of his shoulders. Their position so similar, yet so different to last night.

Last night, Jigen was _desperate._

This morning, he is angry. So, _so_ , angry.

Until Goemon growls out the word, “Breathe.”

He sucks in cool air through pursed lips. Air that should, by all rights stoke the flames of anger higher and higher but it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because all of the fight drains out of him when he actually _looks_ at the samurai.

The canvas is no longer blank.

He stops trying to reach for purchase that isn’t Goemon, and instead lifts a hand to confirm what his eyes are actually seeing. Goemon starts to speak, and Jigen can feel every movement of his jaw under his fingers.

“I left you once. When I should not have.” The grip on Jigen’s shoulders loosen, and smooth clear liquid meets Jigen’s thumb on its journey down the samurai’s cheek. “I was not going to repeat the same mistake twice.”

The breath Goemon takes is shuddering, intense, and it reminds Jigen of being held underneath him – the space between them reduced to nothing with every inhale.

“I did it for you, _because_ it was you. If that in itself was a mistake, then I apologise.”

His dark eyes shimmer, but there’s no more liquid to catch. The damage is done. The fires are extinguished. Jigen leans back against the hard wall, strength all but gone from his legs. He slides down the length of the boards, and Goemon catches him, like he has been all week – even after his outburst, lowering him to the ground with gentle muted actions that he didn’t deserve before, and he definitely doesn’t deserve now.

He drops his head forward onto a waiting shoulder. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if that shoulder ever leaves, what might have happened if that shoulder hadn’t been there.

“I’m a mess,” he says into the fabric of Goemon’s kimono, where it smells like laundry detergent; crisp and clean. He needs to watch his hand, or he’s going to get blood on the fabric again. He tries to move it out the way but Goemon is surrounding him, arms around his shoulders, heartbeat palpable when Jigen presses a hand to his chest.

“I know.”

Goemon doesn’t try to make empty promises. He doesn’t tell Jigen that its going to be okay, that’s he’s going to make it through unscathed – he doesn’t even try. He just pulls him close, jagged edges and all.

“I will be here. As close or as far as you need.”

_And Jigen doesn’t really know how Goemon manages to pack so much into one small statement. How he makes it sound like a threat and a promise all at once. In the end, he supposes, it doesn’t matter – all that matters is that he still believes him._

* * *

Goemon was correct in his assumption that the shrine wasn’t far. An hour by vehicle, if that. Jigen drives and it gives Goemon a valuable opportunity to observe.

Jigen’s traded in the kimono he’s been wearing for his suit – and Goemon would be lying if he said the change didn’t settle something within him. Jigen without his suits, much like Jigen without his hat, was unnerving – unnatural – an omen of difficult times.

The shrine looks in visible disrepair as the car rumbles to a stop in front of it. Goemon had expected as much – it’s been years since he was in this part of the country, and he has no family left here. Dust and spiderwebs fall as he cracks open the door to the small building. The statues are the same, tall and foreboding in ancient armour – staring down with blank impassive faces, uncaring that they are covered in years of debris. A lonely bell chimes with the arrival of a breeze, likely for the first time in years.

Jigen is beside him, observing. The part of his expression that Goemon can see is blank, and he has his hat pulled down too far to see his eyes.

“This may take longer than I expected,” admits Goemon slowly, looking for changes in the countenance. None come.

“S’fine.” He says, reaching into his jacket for his matches.

Goemon looks towards the dark building once more before he starts to trudge back down to the car. His forethought to bring cleaning supplies had proved fortuitous after all.

At first Jigen doesn’t intrude. He stands back, leaning against a nearby tree, hands shoved deep in pockets, puffing smoke. His eyes might even be closed, it’s hard to tell. But either way, he doesn’t move or offer advice as Goemon begins to wipe down the dusty walls and shelves.

Cleaning is slow but cathartic, and Goemon gets so lost in his own thoughts that he almost jumps out of his skin when he hears Jigen’s gruff cough from behind him.

“Where’re you up to?” he says around the fresh unlit cigarette between his teeth.

Goemon points. Jigen looks around a moment before he picks up his own cloth, and moves quietly into the space beside the samurai. It’s comfortable again between the two of them – but Goemon is not naïve enough to think that the worst is over. To think that there will be no more outbursts like the one in the kitchen. He will enjoy the warm companionship while it lasts though, smiling to himself as Jigen starts to hum lowly while he washes down a statue.

Goemon doesn’t recognise the melody – although it sounds western. It’s slow, and seems to be the same tune over and over, with minor variations. Fitting, for the work the work that they are doing. If only it were as easy to repair emotional damages, as it was to repair a debilitated shrine. If only it were as simple as wiping away debris, to leave the surface shining anew.

When the low tune peters out, Goemon turns to find the cause. Jigen is inspecting a sword, still intact in its scabbard. The clear line of dust indicates that it must have been sitting across the lap of the statue in front of him.

“Were all of your ancestors samurai?” Jigen asks, still looking closely at the sword in his hands, sliding the steel out carefully.

The cleaning is almost complete – Goemon feels as though he could light candles and reflect without feeling like he has dishonoured the ancestors in their own home now. He moves to take a closer look at the sword. It is one he hasn’t seen for many years.

“Yes,” he says, running his fingers along the scabbard that Jigen has wiped free of dust, “that I know of anyway. Obviously, I am the thirteenth of my name, but many of my ancestors were also samurai.”

“Mmm,” Jigen hums, moving the still unlit cigarette between his lips, “some of mine were. On my mothers’ side. Bet they’d be right disappointed in me now. They always were a traditional bunch.”

He says the words nonchalantly, but there’s an undercurrent of something a little deeper than the usual self-loathing Goemon has come to expect from the gunman. He shoulders past the surprise he finds at learning that the gunman comes from a line of samurai – though in retrospect, from what he knows of Jigen, he probably shouldn’t be so surprised. The man is a warrior, after all.

“I would disagree,” he says carefully, “I think the ancestors would be proud to see how you honour them.”

Jigen’s lips curl into an empty grin, and when he laughs it’s hollow, “Yeah, I’m sure they’d be very proud – a descendant more unhinged than a cut snake, who smokes like a chimney and drinks alcohol like it’s water.”

He chuckles then; and this one, Goemon is pleased to hear, is a real chuckle, “Actually, they might not mind that one, pretty sure that particular bad decision runs in the family.”

He slides the sword back into its scabbard with a click, and the blunt vacant tone is back “They certainly wouldn’t like my choice of weaponry.”

Goemon doesn’t know what to say to the frank admissions. He doesn’t know what to do apart from be thankful that Jigen is trusting him with this incredibly personal information. Jigen sighs and looks up at the face of the statue. He reaches up and wipes the last of a cobweb away. Places the sword carefully back across the stone lap.

“Maybe not,” Goemon starts. Jigen looks at him. Or at least, he tilts his head in his direction. Who knows where his eyes are looking?

Jigen huffs before he can continue, the brief snort of air out of his nostrils saying more about how he feels than any words. “You try and do right by two sets of ancestors and you only end up disappointing them both.”

He sounds so deflated that Goemon has no choice but to dig deep and attempt to find the words for him.

“Give me your gun.”

“Hmm?”

Goemon holds out a hand, “Your gun.”

With a confused look, Jigen hands the revolver over. Goemon places it next to the sword on the pedestal in front of them.

“You may not be a traditional samurai Jigen; but there is no shame nor dishonour in that, for you are not traditional in any way. You are a however; one might say, a western samurai – you fight with fire and gunpowder instead of steel. The difference in weapon makes you no less noble. Your ancestors would be proud, for despite your differences, you are an honourable man.”

Jigen doesn’t say anything for a long moment, until he lets out a long slow breath.

“Do you truly think that? That I’m an honourable man?”

Goemon places a tentative hand on the gunman’s shoulder. He doesn’t immediately shrug it off, which Goemon suspects is a good sign.

“Yes. I do.”

Jigen doesn’t speak again, but he does leave the revolver where it is next to the sword while they finish the last of the cleaning. Goemon lights the candles, and settles onto his knees to begin his reflection. To his surprise, Jigen joins him, mirroring his pose and leaning back against his ankles.

Goemon’s reflection is for the first time in many months, a peaceful affair. Jigen’s breathing is steady beside him, his own pulse regular and solid in his ears. The ancestors are silent, as is their way – but he feels better having taken the time to honour them. It has been a long year, and he has been a long way from home.

He finishes his reflection and begins to stand, half expecting Jigen to join him immediately. The gunman still looks lost in thought, his head bowed forward, hands relaxed against his knees. Goemon leaves the shrine quietly. If Jigen has further business to attend to with the ancestors, then Goemon can wait.

Some time later, Jigen emerges. He closes the door quietly with a click behind him. When he walks towards Goemon he grunts out, “I snuffed out the candles,” then he continues towards the car, lighting his cigarette as he goes.

The car ride back to the safe house is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. There’s a small amount of tension missing from Jigen’s shoulders, and Goemon can only sit and hope that the reflection has helped settle the gunman as much as it has settled himself.

* * *

Jigen is waiting for the sun to set.

It was all well and good, in the light of day, to feel as though he had some semblance of control, but he knew - as well as Goemon probably did – that the truth would come to light once the sun went down.

He sits down on the living room mattress beside his friend he doesn’t deserve, scotch glass in hand. ( _But he hasn’t brought the bottle out tonight, and he suspects that that is what they call progress._ ) Goemon has his eyes trained on the television set. The news is playing, picture grainy, even at this distance. When Jigen crosses his legs, Goemon’s thigh presses against his own and though the samurai doesn’t say anything out loud, the small movement says more than he needs to.

_I will be here._

It’s a comforting thought, and not one that Jigen is familiar with.

_Because he’d never really had friends – none that stuck around like this._

Goemon chuckles beside him at something the reporter says, and his hand moves so that it sits comfortably over Jigen’s knee, making the joint feel warm – the sensation moving slowly up Jigen’s body, like stepping under a warm shower. It bleeds through him like static and then he’s chasing. Chasing the same peace he’d managed to touch so briefly, before everything had gone to shit, before he’d snapped unequivocally.

Goemon holds his breath when Jigen leans his head against his shoulder this time. _Had he held his breath before? Jigen can’t remember._ Then he exhales and it’s like someone has turned Jigen’s entire world on its axis, _just_ a little bit. Goemon’s hair tickles until he stops moving, finally finding a comfortable position. It’s not quite the same - _and it turns out that Goemon is like alcohol, or nicotine. The second hit takes more than the first to get the same effect –_ but its close enough.

It has to be enough.

* * *

Goemon isn’t expecting to be invited back into the gunman’s bed a second time. Not after the outburst in the kitchen. Jigen dithers about in the doorway while Goemon watches – seemingly unable to make a decision about what he wants.

Eventually Goemon takes pity on him. Two hands on his shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. Jigen reaches out and touches the edge of his kimono where it meets his bindings. Lithe fingers run up and down the edge of the fabric, worrying it between digits.

“Go to sleep, Jigen. I will be here in the morning.”

He straightens his back at the brusque order and complies. There’s _‘something’_ crossing his expression, but its schooled back into neutrality quicker than Goemon can take note of it. This, he suspects, is just one of the downsides of becoming involved with conmen and thieves. All of them are too good at hiding. They hide their pasts, they hide their identities, they hide their emotions. It’s always a calculated gamble on what is real, and what is a cleverly crafted lie.

Goemon settles cross-legged onto the mattress. Jigen leaves the door open to the bedroom ( _he knows this now),_ and Goemon listens to the small sounds that bely movement as the gunman prepares to go to bed. Soft footsteps once the oxfords are discarded, a squeak of bedsprings, and then finally – silence. Nothing but the sound of the wind. He closes his eyes – not tired enough to sleep, yet too on edge to meditate.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

The second night is a different story.

They had packed the last of the items into the car during the day – emptying the safe-house of all but the bare essentials. Goemon had sent a brief message to Fujiko with no reply. No more than he expected.

It’s late, and he knows that soon Jigen will move, and snuff out his last cigarette for the evening. He’ll walk to the kitchen and rinse out the glass he’s been drinking out of, before he wanders down the hallway to the bathroom. The Jigen of today was much similar to the Jigen of the previous week, and Goemon is glad for the reappearance.

He is mildly surprised then, when Jigen stops at the doorway once more, although tonight he doesn’t fidget. He stands tall, hands shoved in his pockets, hat discarded somewhere – looking at Goemon directly. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

Goemon waits.

“Y’don’t have to sleep out here,” he says finally, “if you don’t want to.”

“I do not mind,” Goemon says honestly, and this time he doesn’t miss the look of frustration that crosses the gunman’s face as he struggles to say what he wants in a straightforward manner.

It’s taken him a while, but the more time he spends with Jigen, the more he finds himself comparing his actions around the gunman to his actions around Fujiko. The two of them are so similar in character (both smart, wily, stubborn as bulls), yet they require markedly different handling. Fujiko lies more than she tells the truth – but when she wants something, she doesn’t beat around the bush. Jigen is generally truthful to the point of being rude, yet when it comes to his own wants and needs, its like pulling teeth to get him to admit to anything outright.

“Bed’s big enough,” Jigen says, with an expression that looks like he’s tasted a sour fruit. It’s the last thing he says before he turns and runs – to continue his usual evening routine.

Goemon considers the mattress, and then looks into the hallway. The mattress is not uncomfortable, but it’s no bed either – and they have a long drive tomorrow.

* * *

They’ve been on the road for close to five to hours when Goemon’s phone dings belatedly. At first, he pays it no mind, until it beeps again, and again. Finally, it rings – Jigen side eyes him from the driver’s seat until he answers.

“Fujiko?”

The reception is not the best, but when Fujiko’s voice does come through, it is clear as a bell. Unease, heavy like a stone drops into the pit of Goemon’s stomach as she speaks. Though she is speaking steadily, there’s something fluctuating in her pitch that worries him. She sounds – scared.

“How far away are you?”

He does some quick mental maths and answers an approximate.

“And is Jigen with you?”

“Yes.”

The line goes silent for a moment and Goemon worries that the reception has cut out. He checks quickly – it has not. Then Fujiko speaks once more.

“We have some – troubling news. It’s better if you’re here in person to talk about it. I’ll start moving and meet you – we’ve got to go to the airport.”

Goemon is confused now. Had Fujiko taken on an illegal job? She was supposed to be working above board while she was in Japan. Had something happened in America?

“What is going on Fujiko? Where are we going?”

She laughs, but its not her usual joyful snicker. It’s a hollow laugh, bordering hysterical, and it makes Goemon _worry_.

“I haven’t got the first idea what the hell is going on Goemon, but we need to go to Italy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's read, left kudos and commented. I appreciate every single damn one of you.


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